


“Man is condemned to be free”

by writing_and_worrying



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death, BAMF Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Catholicism, Dehumanization, Derogatory It/Its Pronouns, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Eye Trauma, Good Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insane Wilbur Soot, Manipulation, Pain, Physical Abuse, Prayer, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Villain Wilbur Soot, Vomiting, Whump, please read with caution it gets dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27712577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_and_worrying/pseuds/writing_and_worrying
Summary: The festival of Manburg goes up in flames. Its people are captured and Wilbur Soot takes power.Schlatt wakes up in a cell, the sound of footsteps not too far behind.--MAJOR TWs for graphic violence, religion, implied abuse and manipulation. An ambiguous ending could imply suicide and death, but no deaths are shown 'on-screen' AT ALL. Don't read this if you don't want to see Wilbur Soot being messed up and evil for sixteen chapters straight.Characters are based on the SMP characters NOT their irl 'players', so I've been more liberal with the amounts of violence they commit towards each other. In my other, non-SMP fics, I tend to stay away from irl friends hurting each other, because I think that it crosses boundaries. I'd like to make it clear that this is based in an alternate timeline of the story of the DreamSMP, in a Minecraft-based but semi-realistic world.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), there's something inherently homoerotic about torture
Comments: 349
Kudos: 384





	1. Long Road To Ruin

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! It's another angst thing from me. Please read the tags before reading this one, there is triggering content throughout. Also, if you enjoyed please leave a comment and some kudos to help me through this harsh winter (and also help me get motivated to write the other chapters). 
> 
> Hope you enjoy (?)

_ Here now, don't make a sound _

_ Say, have you heard the news today? _

Darkness. Schlatt woke up freezing, head resting on a hard stone floor. Invisible, unconscious weight sat on his eyelids, keeping them shut as he listened to the sound of his own heartbeat thrumming into the ground. Around him, air like stagnant ice pierced his skin, his breaths turning into tiny clouds of steam every time he exhaled.  _ Why is it so cold? _

The first thing that came to him was sound. A sharp ring filled the empty space of his ears, drowning out the world. It reminded him of the time he passed out that  _ one _ night with the alcohol and Alex and... ugh. He felt like shit.

A frost-bitten, constricting weight fell heavy against his wrists, securing them behind his back. His fingers twitched when he tried to move, metal digging into the veins under his skin in painful, awkward positions. He sat up, head spinning. Eyes opened with some effort, revealing a spinning room that he couldn’t ground himself to. He tried to focus on the floor, where his legs met the ground, where his palm brushed the wall. Anything for a lariat to reality.

Directly ahead, a large metal door stood proud like a soldier. In the centre, a small, barred gap showed a restricted view of the exterior, which looked to be more stone. Schlatt jolted against the restraints on his wrists, an involuntary twitch. Sparks of electricity flew up the nerves in his arms where the frigid metal pulled against his hands, rushing to his spine and fizzing in his head with a disorientating hiss. 

Yep. Handcuffs. He couldn’t stand, the chains were too short. Well, if whoever captured him liked that sort of thing, they could've just said. 

His own joke soured on his tongue before he could say it. There was no one around to laugh with him, anyway. No one. All alone in this stone cell, a bed in the corner that he couldn't reach, and a room at the side with a toilet (how kind). He wondered if Alex would have laughed a genuine laugh, or if it would be as tense and fake as the past days. The days leading up to the festival. Alex had been avoiding him.

_ One flag was taken down _

_ To raise another in its place _

Then it hit him. He was all alone. Just a moment ago he was with so many people. He was with Alex and Tubbo and Fundy—and now no one.  _ Where were they? Where was he? Who had done this? Oh, God. _ Panic gripped him, seizing in his chest like a vice around his heart (damn his heart to hell—weak fucking thing) and the air sapped from his lungs. An attempt at a scream fell flat against the bars on the door.

Horns, heavy on his skull. Framing his face, satanic. He cursed the things when his head jerked back on instinct and they hit the hard stone wall. The sickening crack and shocks of pain that came from it was enough to have him biting his tongue, metallic tastes meshing with smoke and ash left over from... he didn't remember what. Fireworks? 

The festival.

He had to get out of here. Whatever happened, it hadn’t been good. Fleeting memories of a crowd cheering passed him by, melting into nothing but colour and sound and the smell of burning. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t.  _ It’s not safe. _

A sudden pop and senseless fire in his shoulder tore a louder sound from him, which hit the empty walls and fell on deaf ears. He cringed as his right arm moved unnaturally around, forced behind him with handcuffs and chains. At a guess, something was dislocated. He could hear it scraping against cartilage and bone, all wrong and vile and flickering with dead pain. He didn't dare try to stand.

_ A heavy cross you bear _

_ A stubborn heart remains unchanged _

At least he was still clothed. Dried blood (from who, he couldn't be sure) stained his white shirt, half-untucked from his dress pants, and his blazer and tie were gone. Scuffed shoes remained on his feet, meeting torn fabric at the end of his trousers.

Footsteps echoed somewhere outside, steel against stone.  _ Is this what the others used to feel, when they heard him approach? _ A pitiful whimper cracked the air, relief and fear. In the back of his mind, a prayer began to loop, not his voice nor his language, fast becoming background noise as the steps got closer. Each one cut through him, feeding his terror with uncertainty. His whole body shook. The steps came to a stop. All light was blotted out from the gap in the door.

"Good morning, Mr President." A familiar and unsettling voice called through the cell door. Uncanny. Schlatt groaned, his arms burning and his head pounding. He glared up at the door, opening slow, taunting, letting a sliver of light open up further and further until it covered everything, and watched his enemy waltz in, the silhouette of a thick coat flowing behind him as if the wind itself bowed to his word. As if the world bowed. Wilbur Soot smirked down at him.

Schlatt wouldn't bow.

A dangerous light flickered in his dark eyes. "I said…" he took two confident steps towards him, metal-heeled boots like the strike of a match against the floor, "good morning. Mr President." In a beat, he crouched down and gripped Schlatt's jaw tight in his hand, digging dirty nails into his skin and tilting his head to the side with a smirk. Schlatt stared him down, pupils dilated and petrified—animalistic.

_ No home, no life, no love _

_ No stranger singing in your name _

"Those horns are so... interesting, aren’t they?" Wilbur said it to himself but spoke at a volume he knew Schlatt would hear. He laughed when Schlatt tried to struggle and back away, only to hit his shoulder against the wall, sending a series twitching spasms all through his body. 

A sharp inhale let him bite back a scream. "Where—" he breathed out a pained gasp as Wilbur grabbed his arm—"Where are the others?" He had to know. Wilbur stood, brushing off his coat as if he had touched something impure, and took a few steps back from Schlatt's writhing form just to take it all in. This was the man he had been so afraid of? Pathetic.

"Don't worry, I've dealt with them already. Got what I wanted." Wilbur grinned, wide and unhinged. Schlatt felt a subtle buzz in his arm, like pins and needles, but he shook it away, ignoring how much moving hurt. His mind raced, thoughts impossible to disconnect from each other as his enemy's words settled in the air.

The realisation hit like a slow slap in the face. "You—what did you do?" Warm tears fell from his eyes onto the ground. Oh. He didn't even realise he was crying. A cruel laugh split the air like an arrow flying into his chest. 

_ Maybe the season _

_ The colours change in the valley skies _

"I did what I said I'd do, Schlatt. I fucking blew up L'Manburg!" It was now that Schlatt felt bile rise in his throat, nausea swirling like thick oil that clogged his airways and filled his head. He coughed and heaved to the side, but nothing came out. Instead, two aching breaths left his body, sight pulling in and out of focus until he was staring dead at the floor, head raised high enough to see Wilbur's foot tapping against the stone. Beating out a simple tune.

All he had left were words. "Where... wh—where  _ is _ everyone?" He cursed himself for the stutter, but knew he looked miserable no matter what he did. Wilbur walked towards him with haste, purpose in his steps. He crouched down again and grabbed one of Schlatt's horns, forcing him to look him in the eye.

Those eyes. The eyes of a madman. The eyes of someone who had lost everything and had no intention of getting it back. Someone who had all the power in the world. He produced a single golden-yellow feather from his pocket and held it in front of Schlatt's face.

"Do you know what this is?" He asked. Schlatt held back a cry of pain and nodded, his terrified expression giving Wilbur a sense of sick satisfaction. "This is one of Quackity's feathers.” Schlatt already knew. He already knew.

Alex's name (in all its forms) left his mouth, whispered like a broken orison. Confession. A muttered oath. He hoped the man could hear it, wherever he was, sense himself being blessed on the quiet words of his friend.  _ Deliver us from evil. _

Wilbur laughed again, nothing of the man he was before. “I've already talked to everyone else. They all gave up something to be a part of my new country." 

_ Dear God I've sealed my fate _

_ Running through hell, heaven can wait _

Schlatt let relief flood his body. That meant Alex was alive. It meant everyone was alive. But then again, was that… was that any better? New country? What kind of hell was the man in front of him putting them through? Were they kept in cell rooms too? Or was this just for him?

"You will give something up, too." Wilbur's harsh, scratchy voice cracked him like a nail and hammer to glass. The madman still held his horn, pulling it every few seconds with an almost gleeful smile. "Quackity gave his wings, Techno gave his right arm. They had to, or I would have killed them." Schlatt knew what Wilbur meant by 'kill'. He meant using up every life they had. All three—no more respawns. Alex only had two left. God… Alex.

But then Techno, too? His own brother? And his arm? The one thing he had above Wilbur was his skill with the sword. He remembered watching the strange hybrid train in the woods, dancing with the weapon, cutting up the air like it was nothing. He thought maybe with Techno by his side he could keep Wilbur from trespassing. The perfect neutral spy.

Schlatt shuddered at the thought. "What if I say no?" He tried to control his breathing despite the pain in his chest. "Will you kill me? Huh? I don't give a shit." He did give a shit. He'd always been reckless with his words. Ever since they first met. He only had a single life left, and they both knew he was too careless to keep it. 

Wilbur looked down at him with a new, sinister fire. "I would never kill  _ you _ . I don't think I could…" a touch of emotion crossed his face before he threw him down with unexpected force. He hit the ground, spine against the stone right between his shoulders, dragging out a cry. A heavy boot came to rest against his ribcage. Oh.

_ Long road to ruin there in your eyes _

"But—" pressure started to push down ever so slightly, the metal heel digging into bone—"I would kill everyone you care about, and make you watch." He finished with a faux-sweet smile, tilting his head to the side and  _ pushing _ . Schlatt gasped as a snapping sound filled his ears, followed by an explosion of pain in his chest. He called out, struggling violently against the handcuffs, no longer caring about the electric ice in his arm and wrists.

"Fuck! Stop!" He had no choice but to plead. Wilbur nodded once and removed his foot, leaving Schlatt gasping on the floor. Not so much of a villain, now. 

Tired, tear-filled eyes stared into the face of someone he never thought would go this far. "What do you want?" The world blurred around him, colours and shapes blending together and nothing staying still. Schlatt watched Wilbur drop down again, hovering over his body.

"I think it's obvious." A thousand sounds screaming in his head all at once. Reeling. Something warm ran down the side of his head. Blood, maybe tears. There was nothing left for him to give. Surely. 

_ Under the cold streetlights _

Wilbur rolled his eyes, though Schlatt couldn't see. "Your horns." A hand came close to his skull, but Schlatt shook it away so fast it made the world spin even more.

"Wh—Wilbur! You know how much they m—"

"Your horns—" he punctuated the words by gripping Schlatt’s shoulder and pulling him into a sitting position—" or their lives." A beat of silence passed where Schlatt silently begged the man to stop, to say he was joking, to say he wanted something else—anything else. He could have had anything. Not this.

But there was no further comment. Schlatt resigned himself to his fate. "Fine."

_ No tomorrow, no dead end in sight _


	2. In The Woods Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinking problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Wilbur Soot Fucked Up And Evil Compilation
> 
> leave a comment if you like

_ My head was warm _

_ My skin was soaked _

_ I called your name 'til the fever broke _

Wilbur didn’t hurt him again after that. He left Schlatt crying on the floor, shattered in the grief of his choice and the pain of his body. For hours he sobbed, unable to move, thoughts crowded with imagined scenarios where he loses everything, pictures of Alexis curled on the floor as his wings are taken from him (was it quick, was it cruel?) and a thousand words of hatred to his past self for being so vicious he pushed a man to this insanity. 

The next day (but he couldn’t be sure of the time) Wilbur returned, glass bottles of different sizes and colours held in his hands. Schlatt was asleep, facing the wall, curled in on himself with his head dipped down to his chest, a painful attempt at hiding his horns. It looked uncomfortable, with his hands still fastened behind his back and the way his shoulder didn’t sit quite right. Wilbur smirked, he didn’t even have to do that one himself. 

“Wake up.” He pressed the toe of his shoe into the dip between the former president’s shoulder blades, nudging him awake. Schlatt stirred, slow and exhausted, blinking twice before raising his head. 

Then the events of the previous day slammed back into him, along with the flames of pain that came with it. He scrambled to back away until his head hit the wall, horns colliding painfully with it. He needed to get away. Sparks flew through his right arm, locking it in place as soon as he stopped for air. Every gasping, panicked breath he took brought a new wave of agony into his chest, the rise and fall stabbing his lungs and heart, ribs falling like the crumbling vaults of a church ceiling. He couldn’t move. If his body was a temple, it would be in ruins. Wilbur stood over him with a sharp, amused expression.

Wilbur brought one bottle to his own face, actions deliberate and mocking as he uncorked the flask with his teeth. A small pop echoed around the room, releasing a cloud of grey smoke, and Schlatt flinched, nauseating fear swirling in his gut in tandem to the liquid. Whatever the potion was, it wouldn’t be good.

_ When I awoke _

_ The moon still hung _

_ The night so black that the darkness hums _

In a beat, a delicate hand was under his chin, the bottle resting at his lips. “Drink it.” Wilbur, crouched before him, tipped the potion forward, a concentrated, scrutinising darkness in his eyes as he stared Schlatt down. It wasn’t a question. He didn’t dare to turn his head, cold anxiety gripping his form as the liquid met his tongue.  _ Poison? _

It was bitter and had the aftertaste of sour milk. Two gentle fingers ran over his throat in a condescending petting motion, compelling him to drink the disgusting substance. As it settled in his stomach, he realised it was the first thing he’d had to eat or drink since he was captured, meaning its effects would be more potent than normal. A heaviness in his head had already formed, fatigue seeping into his bones. 

Was this it? Was he going to die? Schlatt looked Wilbur in the eyes, trembling like a newborn fawn, tears forming a wavering film over everything he could see. The potion stung a cut on the inside of his mouth, and he felt the urge to push Wilbur away, but struggling could get someone hurt. Someone who wasn’t him.

“Weakness,” Wilbur said, placing the bottle down, “it suits you.” So it wasn’t poison. Schlatt coughed and gasped for air, holding back a sob, knowing it would only sap his energy. Something of a forced calmness washed over him. His shoulder pulsed in time to his slowed heartbeat, numbing the pain that had kept him alert. The sweet of rot lingered on the roof of his mouth.

Hands were at his wrists now, freeing them from the handcuffs with a click. Schlatt curled his hands into fists a few times, marvelling at the way they moved without pain or restriction, almost crying from the repose. Wilbur smiled at him like a hunter admiring his catch.

Rabbit in a snare. Lamb for slaughter. Wilbur took a brisk stand and kicked his dislocated shoulder, sending painful twitches through his arm. On instinct, Schlatt grasped his shoulder with his free hand, leaning forward and gritting teeth as he choked down a shout. Laughter, muffled as if underwater, enveloped and taunted him.

_ I raised myself _

_ My legs were weak _

_ I prayed my mind be good to me _

His vision blurred, and a sudden, threatening drop in his stomach caused his eyes to shoot open. Oh, fuck. His heartbeat quickened, punching the inside of his chest alongside untamed panic. The certainty of it was what got to him. Some intrinsic feeling in his very soul that told him he was going to die. This was it. This was where it ended.

Another popping sound drew him from his state as Wilbur opened something else. The liquid inside swirled and shone a bright ruby red, beautiful and vibrant in contrast to the grey reality of his fading conscious. 

“Hold on, my friend.” Wilbur held his arm and pulled Schlatt into a simple embrace. The hybrid hid his face in his enemy’s collarbone, muttering prayers to himself while his body worked overtime to keep him alive. He was moved so his back rested against the wall, and he whimpered at the loss of contact. No… don’t let him die alone. 

The sweetened taste of artificial strawberries ghosted his throat. Something inside him shifted. A hand ran through his hair, whispered comforts on a sinister tongue, the ice of death reaching out and trying to grab his shirt. It missed by an inch. Unconsciousness took him.

\-------------

Wilbur stepped through the halls of The White House, satisfied smile sitting on his face. The fresh image of shining brown eyes looking up at him burned a fire deep in his chest, some kind of sick urge to push further, inhumanely so—like watching a wounded fawn bleed and die—using regeneration and healing potions over and over until a breaking point was found. Until he caused irreversible damage. 

The cold inside him would thaw this way.

For the others, the choices had been easy. Physical. Quick, but devastating. He wanted them left as functioning people. They all had something to give up. Who else would live in his new country? For Schlatt, his old friend, his worst enemy, it was different. He hadn’t planned to draw it out so much. The idea was to take his prize and leave the former president to rot. The idea, as he had discovered, was far too simple.

Whenever he entered that cell, saw the hybrid lying there, looking so beautifully forlorn, he’d know it wasn’t yet time. It wasn’t time for him to claim his recompense. His return for everything the tyrant had done.

_ An awful noise _

_ Filled the air _

_ I heard a scream in the woods somewhere _

The doors to his office stood heavy and clean, just as he remembered them. One thing he didn’t hate Schlatt for was his upkeep of organised space, or at least getting someone else to do it. The shining marble floors and polished mahogany tables were appropriate for a great leader. Someone rich with power. Someone like Wilbur. 

He pushed open a door which let a low creak as it moved, and walked into the room. In the corner, the resting form of Fundy jolted awake, whipping his head around to see the grinning face of his father. His foxlike ears twitched backwards, flat against his head, and Wilbur pointedly ignored the trembling in his hands.

“Good evening, sir.” His head stayed low, but not in fear. He was trying to hide his mouth, lest Wilbur decide he should remove more than just canines. At least he had been kind enough to provide painkillers and cotton after the event. 

What other way is there to deal with the traitor? “Good evening. Shouldn’t you be working?” His voice cracked the atmosphere, deceptive in its care, causing Fundy’s eyes to widen. Wilbur smiled.  _ Now _ he was scared.

Fundy scrambled out of his seat, rushing to the door. “I’m sorry, I’ll get—get back to it.” He didn’t look up at his father, leaving as fast as he could. Wilbur wondered if it was out of terror, or if he had conditioned his son well enough to feel real guilt from slacking. Either yielded appealing results. 

The door closed, and Wilbur turned his attention to another figure hidden in the room's corner. The boy sat at a side desk with his hand tapping against the side of his chair.

“Tommy, go guard the prisoner.” Wilbur failed to ignore the way his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else and wondered if he could still sing those soft melodies he used to perform before the war (before this world even began). Intrusive memories of water and lava, of a wooden stage, of sober half-jokes, came to mind. It wasn’t like that anymore.

_ A woman's voice _

_ I quickly ran _

_ Into the trees with empty hands _

Tommy nodded once, mute, and stood with all the compliance of a soldier. His steps were brisk, mimicking his brother’s, and he stared straight ahead with eyes like kiln-hardened ceramic. Before Wilbur could get another word in, he was gone.

\-------------

Schlatt slept for a day while the potion Wilbur gave him did its work, mending broken bones and a dislocated shoulder, a cold static buzzing in his dreams. Now, he was ready to wake up. 

He twisted and shook on the floor, a good distance from the bed in the room's corner. Short bursts of ringing flooded his ears, fading in and out like warning sirens, playing repeated music too, a song he didn’t know the words to. Cool shocks ran into his hands and arms when they touched the stone ground, darkness above him and ice below, with no way of lying in a comfortable position. 

His eyes opened. The world around him stuttered into focus and clean, holy air flooded his lungs. A pitiful sound escaped him when he realised the pain Wilbur had caused was gone, and he was still alive. Prayers of thanks left his lips, chapped and pale, muttered sentences so quiet he knew no one would hear. 

Maybe if Wilbur didn’t hear him he wouldn’t come back. The thought didn’t make him happy.

A pang of hunger ripped through him, sudden and sharp. He stifled another noise, hand clutching his side as he brought his knees up to his chest. Nausea rushed him like a bull, shaking legs reminding him of his imprisonment and bleak future. His hand came to one of his horns, fingertips tracing ridges of dark keratin right down to where it met his head. Absently, he wondered if Wilbur would use an axe or a sword.

He took a moment to look around the cell. Of course, Wilbur had left no food, though a single glass of water sat near the bed. Schlatt scoffed. If the Brit thought he’d trust that, he had another thing coming. His throat begged for it, the last thing he drank being potions, but he didn’t give in, staying put at the back of the cell with his shoulder blades digging into the wall.

_ A fox it was _

_ He shook afraid _

_ I spoke no words, no sound he made _

The clicking of shoes was a familiar and dreadful sound, along with the door being opened and the lock clicking against the stop. Wilbur stood over him yet again, holding what looked like a change of clothes in one hand and a small box in the other. 

“You look better,” Wilbur said, faux sweetness in his tone. Schlatt could smell the liquorice  aniseed  of his own cologne, and it made him question what else of his the madman had taken. What else he had claimed as his own in the coup?   
  
“Fuck you,” he spat. They were probably under The White House right now, a secret room Alex had built and never told him about. Those popped up a lot.   
  
The glass of water found itself being plucked off of the floor by Wilbur’s hand. “No thanks. Why didn’t you drink your water?” He sounded confused in a genuine, soft way. Schlatt watched him bring the glass to his eye, looking through the water to create a distorted image. It would have made him laugh if it were any other scenario.   
  
Instead, Schlatt rolled his eyes and scoffed. “I’m not fucking stupid, I know you drugged it or poisoned it, or something.” Wilbur bristled at that, frowning. He tilted his head at Schlatt, eyes burning with a sadistic flame. Two steps forward, then the glass was placed next to Schlatt’s foot.

“Do you want me to  _ make _ you drink it?” It wasn’t a question, so Schlatt didn’t answer. He blinked, processing the situation before him, before shaking his head once and looking down at the glass. 

_ His bone exposed _

_ His hind was lame _

_ I raised a stone to end his pain _

His mouth was dry. All sense begged him to drink. He picked up the glass and brought it to his lips. His eyes flickered between the water and Wilbur’s expectant expression. Up, down, up, down. Then he drank. 

Oh, sweet water. Sweet life! Schlatt refused to pause for breath, continuing to drink until the glass was empty. He shuddered, almost sobbing from the overwhelming sensation of aches he hadn’t noticed disappearing. The first fresh drag of air had his head spinning.

A hand ran through his hair as he put the glass down. “Good boy.” Schlatt felt his face heat up, a shake of horror passing through him. His shoulders tensed.   
  
“Shut the fuck up,” he said, jerking his head away. His horns clacked against the wall. “This isn’t some little fantasy for you to get off on. That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.” He tried his best to glare at his captor, hoping maybe if he tried hard enough, he could force the man to leave forever. It was a meaningless fallacy, but he could try. He felt exposed under Wilbur’s gaze. Vulnerable and weak and helpless. Everything he never wanted to be.

Wilbur laughed. “You still think everyone’s in love with you, huh?” It dug into the sand of Schlatt’s memories and pulled out something painful. All metal and oil, pollution. A buried old joke between them long ago. Back when they were friends. Memories of splitting a house down the middle and screaming obscenities into a wall of water and wasting a life on the stupidest thing—but it didn’t matter because they were together.

He didn’t say anything. Neither of them did.

_ What caused the wound? _

_ How large the teeth? _

_ I saw new eyes were watching me _

The little box had been left on the ground while Wilbur watched Schlatt drink, but now he turned to it with a flighty smile. He ran his fingers over the gold latch, humming to himself, and clicked it open with his nail. Schlatt flinched. Something was pulled out of the box, hidden under Wilbur’s hand.   
  
“What the fuck is that?” Schlatt let the words scratch out of him, tired and biting. 

Wilbur raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you recognise it?” He let the item (a necklace?) hand from his fingertips, swaying like a pendulum. Schlatt’s eyes followed it as it moved, dizzying himself before shaking his head. He blinked, screwing his eyes shut then opening them with care, focussing on the item in Wilbur’s hand.

It was a red and gold rosary. One that had belonged to Alex. Schlatt’s eyes widened, fear seeping back into his bones. He didn’t dare to speak as Wilbur draped the string of beads over his left horn, wrapping them around until the crucifix hung next to his ear, a perfect satire of his wavering faith. His breath stalled in his chest, freezing with Wilbur so close. A beat of silence passed.

More pieces of jewellery were fished from the box. Necklaces and earrings and accessories that must have been designed specifically for this. Two shining, cross-shaped studs were settled in his ears (he’d had them pierced some times ago, though no one knew) while golden beads and rings were entangled on his horns. 

_ The creature lunged _

_ I turned and ran _

_ To save a life I didn't have _

Schlatt stayed still, letting Wilbur do his work in silence. He felt apprehension welling up inside, the idea of being dressed up like some ornament to be looked at making his chest tighten. And the way Wilbur looked at him, like this was the greatest thing he’d ever done, sickened him to his core.

The last things Wilbur took from the box were pieces of white string, varying lengths, mundane and strange compared to the expensive pieces from before. But when they were held in front of him, Schlatt knew why Wilbur deemed them just as important. Attached to each string was a feather. Rounded, soft and yellow. A twisted reminder of the sacrifices made before his. The strings were tied to his horns, dripping down like honey at different levels around his face. He scowled at Wilbur, who smiled and clapped his hands together.

“There, now you look presentable. Keep those on, and change into this.” He placed the clothes in his hand down. A crisp white shirt with golden blossoms stitched into the sleeves, and a clean pair of black dress pants. Placed neatly on top were white boxers, black socks, and a blood-red tie.

”I’ll be back tomorrow for the main event.” It was then that Schlatt realised the removal of his horns would not be some quiet, secluded torture. Wilbur wanted a show. He wanted a performance. A spectacle.

He wanted to break his pride.

_ Dear, in the chase _

_ There as I flew _

_ Forgot all prayers of joining you _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothin gay about forcin the homie to swallo--*gets shot*


	3. Wash Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intermission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, folks! There are new tags and a new chapter number on this fic. Please be sure to read the tags and take them as serious warnings. This one is gonna get dark!
> 
> This chapter specifically is probably one of the more messed up ones. I hope you enjoy (?) it as much as I do! If you liked, leave a comment telling me what you think :)
> 
> Also, sorry this chapter is a little shorter than the others. It was originally going to be split into three scenes, but this first one ended up being 2000 words, so I left the next two scenes for next chapter instead, which is good because it gives me more space to flesh out those scenes a bit more!

_ I got troubles oh, but not today _

_ Cause they're gonna wash away _

_ They're gonna wash away _

When Wilbur arrived the next day holding a healing potion, Schlatt knew he should have been scared. He should have backed into the wall and started to shake like a cornered animal. He should have tried to hide his horns or protect himself. That’s what Wilbur wanted, wasn’t it? The thing that brought him so much joy? If he played along, maybe his captor would be kinder, and he shouldn’t have to act. Not after everything that had been done to him. He should have been scared.

But in place of that instinctual fear, an open space sat cold in Schlatt’s chest. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching silently as Wilbur opened light into the cell, heels striking the stone like they always did. The cruel smile and unhinged eyes were the same as before. Familiar.

And maybe that was it, the routine of it all, similarity, which faded his dread into an abstraction. Or maybe he’d been broken already, dulled to the pain, pushed too far. So simple. So easy. Was that all it took to destroy him? A dislocated shoulder and some broken ribs? If Wilbur’s aim was to break him by taking his horns, this torture was overkill. Detrimental, even, lessening the effect of the finale.

Something metallic shone in Wilbur’s other hand, sharp and serrated. Nevermind.

“What’re you gonna do now, asshole?” The insult felt bitter on Schlatt’s tongue, empty and wavering. Wilbur smiled. He said nothing, twirling a knife between his fingers, each little flourish of the weapon splitting new tension into Schlatt’s bones. It wasn’t as intimidating as a sword, but it struck him as deadlier. A short blade, one edge lined with wavelike thorns pointing towards the handle, designed to move forward smoothly, but catch and tear if pulled back.

The mattress shifted as Schlatt stood, hands twitching when he let go of the sheets. He stared Wilbur down, standing on tip-toes and pushing his shoulders back because he  _ wasn’t scared and he never would be scared.  _ His heart pounded in his chest, hammering against his ribs in erratic pulses. He bit back a sneer.

He was the fucking President. He wouldn’t be beaten down by an insane man. If he told himself this, it might become true. His jaw set in a scowl and Wilbur hesitated for a second. He looked perplexed. Good. Schlatt wanted him to be confused. Wanted him to be the frightened one.

_ And I have sins Lord, but not today _

_ Cause they're gonna wash away _

_ They're gonna wash away _

Then Wilbur broke the immersion. His eyes are the thing that betrayed it. A flicker of confidence conflicting with his frown. It was all an act. Schlatt’s breath froze as Wilbur stepped forward. The realisation hit too late. He smirked, and the knife slid right into Schlatt’s stomach.

“Oh. Oh, fuck—fucking shit,  _ Will—Wilbur—Holy—fuck—Christ— _ ” He stumbled over curses and gasped out breaths, collapsing backwards as Wilbur pushed him onto the bed. Shots of fire erupted in his core, a scream leaving his throat before he could even register the pain.    
  
He sat crumpled on the white sheets, Wilbur watching with fascinated eyes. “Does it hurt?” His words were muffled, drowned out by a low rumbling that filled Schlatt’s ears. Desperate hands grasped at bedsheets, Wilbur holding his shoulder in place while his expression stiffened into a concentrated interest. 

Schlatt’s eyes were wide and animalistic. “Oh,  _ God! _ ” Tears fell down his face at a rate that left him dizzy, the sharp smell of metal hitting at the same time another wave of pain ran through him. His body shook violently as he coughed, spots of blood landing on Wilbur’s shirt, staining it with red.    
  
Wilbur clicked his tongue, holding the knife so the handle stayed firm against his skin. “Do you believe in God, Schlatt?” His words seemed clearer now. Schlatt shut his eyes tight, scrunching his face before relaxing again with a pained sigh.   
  
“Wh—”   
  
“I know you flaunt your belief like a prize, but do you really believe?” Wilbur asked. His smile made Schlatt feel sick. Warm blood ran down his navel, escaping from around the knife in rivers that flowed together as they fell, pooling on the floor and dirtying his shoes. Everything felt like static.

_ And I had friends oh, but not today _

_ Cause they're done washed away _

_ They're done washed away _   
  
Wilbur’s point hadn’t quite landed yet, but it would. “Because—” he twisted the knife inside, ripping a scream from his prisoner—” I think, when it comes down to it, you don’t know what you believe.” Dazed understanding fell into Schlatt’s crowded mind, mingling with numbed but molten pain and intense mortal panic. He could do nothing to stop the hand at his jaw.   
  
“You’re going to die if I don’t heal you. So tell me, do you believe in an afterlife?” Wilbur said it with such sincerity, such conviction, that it felt like a test. Schlatt nodded, weak. He did. He believed.   
  
Cold laughter broke the silence. “Do you? Really? You’re bleeding out right about now. Can you feel your heart slowing?” He could. What once were fast, painful palpitations were now a normal resting pace. The unnatural relaxation made him choke with fear. 

“Y’know what I believe? I believe there’s nothing. Nothing. I think you’re going to die and then there’ll be nothing.” A thumb swiped tears from his eyes. Schlatt groaned. The very thought of nothingness pushed him to the edge. If this was going to kill him—and it felt that way—would there be anything to greet him at the end? Anything,  _ something _ to help? He didn’t know.  _ He didn’t know. _   
  
No one knew. Wilbur pushed his head to one side. “And I think that’s what you believe, too.” Schlatt had lied before, he had no faith. It took bleeding onto the floor and screaming himself hoarse for him to realise that. People always said he looked like the devil. Now he understood. He’d fallen from grace the moment he started to question it, but he was dishonest. And it was horrifying.   
  
“You can have your comforts, but you’ll never really believe them. Mortality scares you, and you’re facing it.” Wilbur ended his speech, still holding the knife in place. An agonising second passed, and Schlatt felt far too aware of his own body. Adrenaline buzzed through his veins, pulling him into a hyper-aware state while keeping everything below his chest completely numb. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak.

Breaths came quicker, fear spiking as his vision went dark in a series of flickering beats. A familiar drop in his chest warned him his time was running out, and this time he had no false belief to lean on. The cold of the room ran into his bones.

_ And oh, I've been cryin' _

_ And oh, I've been cryin' _

_ And oh, no more cryin' _

_ No, no more cryin' here _   
  
He shuddered. “Please…” He sounded pathetic, like every ounce of fight had been drained. Wilbur’s face lit up. 

“Oh, that’s nice. Beg for your life. Beg me to use this potion. Beg your  _ god,  _ beg  _ me, _ to save your life.” His tone was low. He held up the bottle from before, filled with pink, sparkling liquid, and swirled it around, teasing. Schlatt couldn’t help but watch it, a mournful sob escaping his lips.    
  
Copper filled his mouth. “Please… please, I can’t—I don’t wanna die.” He knew how pathetic he sounded, but when he tried to grip Wilbur’s shirt, his fingers were numb, and his arms barely rose, and the terror constricting him in that moment far surpassed the need to retain his dignity. The smell of blood hit him, causing him to tense and retch. He coughed fine wine onto silk sheets. 

Red and white. The colours blurred. Wilbur held him close, petting his hair as one might do to a cat, and Schlatt leaned into it, ruined sobs falling into the dip of his captor’s shoulder as he whispered gentle words in his ear. 

“Come on,  _ sweetheart _ , you can try harder. I believe in you.” There was an awful pull in his stomach, and he had to stop himself from heaving. Wilbur watched each beautiful serration in the knife catch on torn skin, his eyes glinting when Schlatt screamed. Blood flowed around the metal, pouring out in little waves, brilliant, vibrant red.

Pure, human fear was the only thing left in Schlatt’s mind. “Don’t let me die, oh, god, don’t let me die—please don’t—I don’t want to die—I’m scared! I’m fucking scared! Please, Will—please!” His words stuttered and slurred, dissolving into mumbled pleas. They trailed off, fading fast with Schlatt’s consciousness, and he cried as he felt his own body becoming numb. He was dying. 

_ We get along Lord, but not today _

_ Cause we gonna wash away _

_ We gonna wash away _

A hum graced his ears. “Hm. Good enough.” The sound of a cork being popped, then the taste of sugar in his mouth. He had no choice but the drink, shaking breaths failing to fill his struggling lungs. Oh, god, he was going to die. He was going to die… 

Then he didn’t.

The potion went straight to the hole in his stomach, working quick to stitch muscle and tissue and skin. Within a breath, the wound had closed, leaving Schlatt collapsed into Wilbur’s arms, mumbling nonsense into the air. His mind fogged, fatigue weighing him down. But one thing was clear. Wilbur had just saved his life.

“Say thank you,” the man said, gripping Schlatt’s arm and staring at him with an expression that betrayed disturbance. If it was from his own actions or the intensity of Schlatt’s state, neither of them knew.   
  
Schlatt took a shaking, gasping breath. “Fuck… thank you, thank you—God, thank you…” 

“Shit, now I have to get you a new shirt.” As if it mattered. As if Wilbur didn’t have the power to order another custom-fitted set of clothes for later. As if he hadn’t ruined lives for anything less. Schlatt trembled against him.   
  
“Sorry.” He didn’t know why he was apologising. Red stained his fingers, dripping down into the puddle on the floor. Had all of that been him? He felt sick.

The knife and bottle clattered against the floor, Wilbur’s hands finding their way to Schlatt’s face. “It’s okay, pet—” the words burnt vicious acrimony into Schlatt’s heart—” I’ll make sure you look perfect for this evening.” His chest tightened. This evening. In less than a day, he would lose the last scrap of pride he had left. If he hadn’t already lost it. The last pieces of himself lost to an obscure construct of a person. His own sense of self fell like sand between his fingers. But… did it matter?

A tired kind of apathy washed over him at the news. He hummed, eyes watching the wall but not seeing anything, looking past Wilbur and landing on pinpointed shapes. Fingers brushed his hair away from his face, and he welcomed the touch. He flinched when something passed the base of his horns. Vague questions came to mind, though he attached no sentiment to them. How would his horns be taken? Who would watch? What was Wilbur going to do with them afterwards? 

He thought maybe there would be a display. Sometimes hunters hang their catch on the wall, and how was he any different? Alex’s feathers were jewellery. Wilbur could make a cornucopia to match. 

Warmth backed away, and the distant sound of metal hitting glass filled the room. Schlatt tried to focus, tried to reach out to the heat, but his body wouldn’t move, stuck watching weathered stone. Exactly what he was seeing didn’t register, his thoughts somewhere else. The world felt disconnected, like he was inside an oil painting, slouching over his own form and trying desperately to get back into his own body.

Someone moved around him, then away, active brush strokes just outside his line of sight. Cold air shot through his chest, making him shiver and whine absently in protest. Footsteps grew further from him, their echoing strike blending into white noise and leaving Schlatt alone. He was alone. 

A creaking sound shifted him away from the floating state. Reality came back slow and smooth like the flow of syrup, as if his body had been encased in tree sap. His own breaths were loud in his ears, and they were heavy (panicked? Why was he panicking?) each laboured gasp drawing air into his aching chest. His hands tightened around soft fabric. He looked down.

Blood blossomed on the sheets, too smooth and rich under his trembling form. Nausea rose inside him as he realised his own administration made the room this way. He let go, instead choosing to dig his fingernails into his arms, rough skin grounding him into the room. Wilbur was gone, and his own blood pooled below him. Oh.

And there, in the dark, cold cell, Schlatt realised something. He could just give up.

_ And I got troubles oh, but not today _

_ Cause they gonna wash away _

_ This old heart gonna take them away _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horn removal coming soon to a blown-up nation near you!


	4. California Dreamin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of backstories and churches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter took so long to come out! It's really long and I was very unhappy with it, so it took a lot of editing. I hope you enjoy this double-length chapter! 
> 
> If you do enjoy, leave a comment and some kudos :0 I love reading your thoughts and analysis, it really motivates me to keep posting :D
> 
> Please mind the new tags and trigger warnings!

_ All the leaves are brown (All the leaves are brown) _

_ And the sky is gray (And the sky is gray) _

Tommy didn’t know how to help people anymore. In concept, yes, he could run errands and be a shoulder to cry on, but something had changed. It wasn’t fair. He used to be so good at helping people!

When the Disc Wars and the L’Manburg War of Independence were underway, everyone said he was an asset to the cause. Everyone said he did well, he was so mature for his age, he’d come a long way. Wilbur would take him aside and give kind words of encouragement, patting his shoulder, and it meant a lot. He wondered if Wilbur knew that.

The transition was slow. People stopped calling him a child some way through the revolution. He’d proven himself, somehow, and they said he deserved respect. No more impulsive choices. No more picking fights. No more hero-worship. They used their words, not their weapons. 

Until they had to fight. They had no choice. War was tough, and Wilbur might have escalated things more than Tommy did because his words were refined and cruel and hit Dream where it hurt. But he didn’t blame Wilbur for what happened. It was his own fault, his own reckless energy and his own burning hatred that got him in the duel. His arrow that didn’t fly fast enough, his misstep, his arrogance.

It left him with scars and the loss of his discs, but he’d saved his country, and that was all that mattered. L’Manburg mattered more than possessions. That was written in the constitution (was it?). Wilbur was proud of him and he was proud of himself and they won the war and, and, and… 

There had been a period of peace. Brilliant, shining peace. The walls of their nation stood tall, despite Eret’s betrayal (where was Eret now?) and Dream’s attacks. Wilbur was a good leader, it was in his blood, so of course, he ran for president. Their campaign was strong, they were popular, they didn’t need people like Quackity or George to win. They were good at winning. Tommy was good at helping people win.

Then everything went to shit. 

Schlatt came into power and exiled him because he was fucking evil. Wilbur shouted at him to run, arrows rained from the sky, confusion and fear ate up his thoughts. The tyrant’s maniacal laughter echoed in his ears, blurring together with something else. That day had been worse than losing the discs. That day he lost everything.

How old was he when it happened? He didn’t know… fifteen or sixteen. A lot of his memories were weird. All colours and shapes and nothing else. Like they were being kept behind wavy bathroom-window glass. He tried to look through it, make out what he could, but to no avail.

Tubbo called it a ‘trauma response’. He didn’t know when his best friend had time to learn about things like that. How long had he and Wilbur been in Pogtopia? Tubbo said it had been almost a year. That couldn’t be right. He would remember it.

He missed Tubbo. Tubbo helped people. No one knew where he’d gone. In the explosion and the chaos, the boy had disappeared. Tommy hadn’t seen him since the evening before the festival, when Wilbur put the weight of choice on his shoulders, calling him a yes-man as soon as his back was turned. Wilbur wasn’t in his right mind. He was better now. He wouldn’t say that now. And, well, he was kind of right.

Even so, if Tubbo hasn’t said that phrase, and if he hadn’t agreed to the plan… they’d still be in Pogtopia (L’Manburg wouldn’t be gone) and Wilbur would be insane. Tommy tried not to resent Tubbo for pulling the trigger. Tommy tried not to resent Wilbur for placing all that TNT. 

_ I've been for a walk (I've been for a walk) _

_ On a winter's day (On a winter's day) _

Walking the streets of New L’Manburg, he felt a sombre weight hanging in his chest. His brittle bones stung with the early winter cold, a new pain in his left leg he hadn’t felt the year before, knee clicking when he walked. He’d patched up parts of the nation himself after the festival, but Wilbur told him to focus on the stage and seating area. So he did. He helped. But it didn’t feel the same as when he helped in the wars, or in the presidential election. He didn’t ask why. He couldn’t ask why. 

That was done now. He was walking to find Fundy. Wilbur said his son had some instructions for him. Why he couldn’t just tell Tommy himself, he didn’t question. Maybe his brother wanted him out of The White House for a while. The last time he saw him he was making his way down to the underground cells, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. He spent a lot of time down there since the festival. Tommy knew better than to bring it up.

So he had spent the last hour trailing New L’Manburg in search of the guy with the fox ears and missing teeth. What fun.

He didn’t know why Fundy’s canine teeth were missing. Techno’s arm and Quackity’s wings and Niki’s bakery made sense, the explosion had caused a lot of damage, but the precise and specific injury just seemed cruel. Not cruel like a storm or a fire or an earthquake, cruel like a person. 

Maybe Schlatt did it when he was in power. Wilbur said the man was a tyrant, after all, and he had shown that to be true when he banished them from their own country, the country they had built from the ground up, the place they called home. Fundy was Wilbur’s son, so some animosity between them made sense. But enough to do something so… morbid? Tommy didn’t like to think about it.

The smell of sulfur still stung his nose outside The White House walls. He was walking to Niki’s new makeshift house, the last place he had to check before the inevitable return to Wilbur. The thought of going back with no instructions made him queasy. Wilbur had given orders, and he had to follow them, or else what kind of Vice President was he?

_ I'd be safe and warm (I'd be safe and warm) _

_ If I was in L.A (If I was in L.A.) _

Niki had lost her home in the explosion, as most people had, but Tommy had helped her build a new one (so helpful, but he still felt empty). It stood simple and rough next to one of L’Manburg’s lakes, comforting pillars of smoke billowing out of the chimney, showing that someone was home. Thank god.

He wasn’t sure why his chest went all warm and fuzzy when he was around Niki. She was so unlike Wilbur, so sweet and caring and able to kick ass if she wanted to (she rarely did). She’d been a flame snuffed under Schlatt’s administration, but now she had a chance to shine again. He smiled at the thought of the treats she used to bake them during the revolution.

Despite the thick coat Wilbur had given him, he shivered, and he wondered if it would snow soon. The snow used to excite him, an excuse to stop working and have some fun, even in wartime, his snowball fights with Wilbur and Tubbo bringing a little spark of joy into his life. Now, it would only make his work harder. He was so immature back then, not realising the hardship winter brings. Snow would have to be shovelled, then the ice would have to be salted, and everyone in the country would need more firewood and food and clothes. And this didn’t feel like helping anymore.

Niki’s door faced him, haphazard wooden planks cut down and given a lock. They’d improve it soon. Not now, but soon. Tommy pulled a key out of his pocket and placed it into the lock, struggling with it for a few seconds before successfully opening the door. He didn’t need to knock, Wilbur said this was important.

The smell of pastries drifted through the air, filling his breath with sugar. It reminded him of rot. The door slammed hard, and he flinched, but at least it would alert Niki to his presence. The sound of voices in the living room stopped dead.

“Who is it?” Niki called, voice wavering. Tommy didn’t answer, stepping through the hallway until he reached the living room. It wasn’t pretty, but Niki had tried her best to make it feel like home, a little plant in the corner and some nice floral curtains covering the window. The fireplace burnt low and steady, a pile of logs sitting next to it. Tommy stood in the doorway, raising his hand in a half-wave and giving a light smile. He wished he had more time to catch up. 

A beat of silence passed. Niki relaxed, stepping aside to reveal Fundy standing behind her. His eyes were rimmed with red, but Tommy didn’t mention it, instead focussing on a crack in the wall behind him. Anything to keep his gaze away from the confusing emotion of his friend.

Fundy sniffed. “Dad sent you, didn’t he?” His voice scratched by like metal against stone. Tommy nodded, quiet as Niki left the room with a nervous glance that he caught in the corner of his eye. She disappeared to the kitchen, and Tommy looked back to the wall. Fundy kept his head down.

“He wanted me to, uh, to tell you to go get Schlatt,” he said. Tommy furrowed his eyebrows. Why did Wilbur make him stalk all the way out here just to have Fundy tell him this? He could’ve used his communicator (no, it had been taken off of him) or said it himself. But whatever, whatever! 

_ California dreamin' (California dreamin') _

_ On such a winter's day _

Tommy knew Schlatt was their prisoner. He was fine with that, more than happy to keep the bastard locked up after everything he did to this nation (Tubbo said, in one of their last meetings, that he’d done a lot of good, but what did Tubbo know?). Wilbur had sent him down to guard the door a few times, but there had always been nothing but silence inside the cell. He hadn’t seen Schlatt since the festival. Why did Wilbur need him to ‘go get’ the guy?   
  
“He’s cutting Schlatt’s horns off today?” Fundy said, noticing the boy’s confusion. “In front of everyone… he wanted you to fetch him from his cell and take him to the podium.” Oh. Oh? Wait. Huh? Tommy’s brain whirred for a good portion of time, flipping through and unpacking everything Fundy just said. 

Wilbur was… well, that seemed excessive. Tommy did not say this, instead choosing to reason with Wilbur’s actions in his mind. His president was a smart man, a good man, his role-model and his favourite brother (is that true?). He’d never been wrong before, only misunderstood, the rejection of his own people driving him to destroy the nation he once loved in a fit of pure loyalty, unwilling to see it stand in the hands of a monster.

There was no reason he’d be wrong this time. No reason Schlatt didn’t somehow deserve this punishment. He ignored the bitter taste in his mouth, opting to stare at the floor instead of the wall. Fundy watched him in silence. Tommy could figure this out. 

And, yes, it hurt to do so. Hurt his head as he thought over and over the few words Fundy had given, but he got there in the end. Schlatt was bad, he deserved to face justice for what he did (what did he do?) and if Wilbur reckoned this was the best way to do it, then he was right.

He gave Fundy a sharp nod, turned on his heel, and left. Without saying goodbye, he stepped out of Niki’s house and into the cold, freezing air whipping against his face as he made his way back to The White House. A sense of determination settled deep in his chest, bubbling away with a lot of other emotions he didn’t understand. Rage and pain and deep anxiety. But those didn’t matter. Useless, irrational feelings.

Nothing else mattered now. He had a job to do, and by god, he was going to do it right.

\------------

When Schlatt was seven years old, he got adopted by two young farmers who wanted a son, but couldn’t make one on their own. They were human, but they never treated him unfairly because of it, unlike the man who made him an orphan. A gentle kindness flowed through both of them, and it could be seen in their work and their home. 

They farmed all sorts of crops, favouring wheat and corn over anything else, selling to the old flour mill down the lane, but they also had a small range of livestock. A brood of hens which laid eggs with the orangest yolks you’ll ever see, three cows producing top-quality milk to sell, and a flock of sheep, thick woollen coats sheared to sell at the market. 

The farmers let Schlatt help with the work, despite his age. He started by collecting eggs from the hens every morning, walking around with a delicate straw basket and trying not to frighten the birds. He’d drop the basket off at home, then sneak out to the woods to hit the trees with sticks and scream and let his emotions lay bare for only plants to see. Had to get rid of that restless energy somehow.

Without fail, he’d be back at home for breakfast, voice hoarse and shoes muddy. His adoptive mother would ruffle his hair and tell him he did a good job, cracking a few of the eggs to make breakfast, then he’d join his adoptive father at the market selling the rest of the stock. Looking back on it now, that might have been the happiest he ever was.

Schlatt stared at his reflection in the fresh glass of water Wilbur had left him, feeling a pit open up in his chest. The worst thing about it was how put-together he looked, cool and flawless skin, expensive clothes embroidered in gold, jewellery dripping from his horns and neck. He didn’t recognise the man he saw. Even the permanent grey under his eyes had vanished since those potions entered his system. What a joke.

Then again, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. The phantom pains in his stomach had long since passed, leaving him with a numb void to fall into, horns heavy on his head. His hand ran over the beads of Alex’s rosary, a muttered Hail Mary spilling from his lips in unconscious thought.

The door opened, cautious, and Schlatt lifted his head, expecting to see Wilbur standing over him. Instead, a blond-haired teenager shifted from one foot to the other in the doorway, shooting him curious glances every couple of seconds. Schlatt almost didn’t recognise him at first, but it was Tommy. He looked… different from when they were last face to face. His shoulders were broader, for a start, and his eyes weren’t sparking with life as they used to. He had a nervous air about him, but carried himself like a soldier, all dignity and compliance. A brief thought crossed Schlatt’s mind. Did he cause this?

The slice of metal against itself, and a sword was under his chin. Schlatt didn’t react, looking down at the blade and wondering if he should be scared. He felt nothing. 

Tommy made a gesture for him to stand, so he did. He knew what this was. It must be sunset already. Cool jewellery brushed his ears and face as he stood, the hanging feathers and golden ornaments swinging from the movement. Schlatt’s legs shook from lack of use, and a biting cold seeped into his hands. Good. 

_ Stopped in to a church _

_ I passed along the way _

Whilst he was still on the farm, Schlatt helped with more random pieces of work just to pass the time. He found that the physical stress of work engulfed any sense of fear or anger that came into his mind, so the farm was the perfect place to be. By the time he was nine, he could do about any job he was offered.

One of those jobs was working with the sheep. Making sure they were all happy and healthy, shearing them when their coats became too thick, feeding them and fixing broken fences. And he loved it. 

Being a ram hybrid helped. He could look the animals in the eyes and give you an accurate judgement of their character in seconds. There was some sort of intrinsic link between him and the animals that made him good at what he did. His parents adored him for it, teasing him when his horns grew in, calling him the ‘sheep whisperer’ and the like. But he didn’t mind. He spent a lot of time making sure every animal was doing well.

There was a new ram on the farm, only a year old, who had a problem with its horns. One horn had grown in weird, curling up and around the wrong direction, right into its eye, irritating and inflaming it. Schlatt had run to his parents when he found out, and they’d shared a concerned look before calling a specialist.

Maybe he should have never told them.

_ Well I got down on my knees (Got down on my knees) _

_ And I began to pray (I began to pray) _

He’d almost forgotten what The White House looked like. The walls had been stripped of paper and painted over with white and gold, and the photos and mementos which used to sit on the shelves were gone, disappeared with the rest of his administration. Schlatt walked in tandem with Tommy, cold metal pressed against his neck. He wanted to tell the boy it was unnecessary, that he’d follow and agree to whatever was asked, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of the fake power the kid bestowed upon him. It was so easy to pretend that he was still a threat.

He kept his expression neutral by force, not allowing Tommy to see what he was thinking. He led him to the side of the stage, newly renovated after the festival, and stopped right in front of the grinning form of Wilbur. Schlatt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This was far too dramatic.

Wilbur grabbed his arm and dragged him onto the stage, throwing him down next to the lectern. He collapsed hard onto the wooden floor, legs weakly folded and hands breaking the fall. There was a crowd, a big one, but he pretended not to see. The eyes surrounded him, at least a hundred people. But Wilbur wanted a show, didn’t he?

So he looked up. Regret hit him at the same time as the pain. He didn’t like to be watched. He never did. Not even when he was president, giving stupid speeches and laying new laws. And now the eyes were all over him.

He didn’t have the cover of power to protect him anymore. 

And, oh, what had they done to his nation? Buildings destroyed, ground pulled up from underneath, the layer of ash covering the ruins of his country. In the distance, a colourful flag flew, battering the air with torn and burnt fabric. The stage and seats were new, everything else had been blown up and burnt. 

A sadness he’d never felt before weighed in his head. The remains of his world reached out to him, begged him to help, begged him to fix it, and he could do nothing. It had all been broken. Everything he worked towards. Gone.

_ You know the preacher likes the cold (Preacher likes the cold) _

_ He knows I'm gonna stay (Knows I'm gonna stay) _

The ram with the horn growing into his eye was seen by a specialist. She was tall and sharp and Schlatt cowered behind his mother when she looked down at him, making a snide remark about his clear hybrid nature. His father had told him to stay inside after that, but Schlatt wanted to see what they were doing, so he watched from a distance.

At first, the end of the ram’s horn was sliced with a sort of wire. Schlatt winced but knew the area was dead and grey—the animal wasn’t in pain.

It was when the woman brought out a blade, and cut right through the base of the horn, Schlatt had to cover his eyes. A violent, feral scream rang out across the farm, the ram thrashing and bleating in the vet’s arms. Schlatt knew it was wrong, knew that the animal should have been sedated before such a procedure, but he said nothing of it to his parents. 

He could only picture himself in the ram’s place, vivid images of a hunter and a sword and bright red blood flashing in his mind. It had been so long, he’d almost forgotten. But this he couldn’t forget. That scream haunted him for months.

Now, Wilbur stood at the microphone on the stage, Tommy and Schlatt to his left, Techno to his right. Schlatt looked over the crowd, ignoring the pitying faces and latching onto the satisfied ones, finding comfort in being hated at his lowest point. They still saw him as their dictator, huh? 

The cold metal of a sword pressed perfectly still at his neck. He wondered when Tommy stopped talking, then wondered if anyone else had noticed. Across the stage, Techno held a heavy shield on his left arm, no sword at his belt. Schlatt sighed, ignoring the quickening pace of his heart as Wilbur tapped the mic in cruel mockery of his own style, sending him an amused glance which he returned with a scowl.

Birds flew over the stage. “Good evening, citizens of New L’Manburg!” Wilbur stretched his arms out, grinning wide and unhinged at the swarm of people below. There was a cheer. Schlatt couldn’t tell if it was forced. Somewhere in the crowd, he picked out a pair of deep brown eyes, watching with a distinct sadness only they could grasp.

“Former-dictator Schlatt has been ruling your country with cruelty and hatred for almost a year, now,” Wilbur continued, fingers tapping the side of the lectern, “but that rule is over, and I believe it’s time for you—for us. Our country! To make him pay his penance…” He trailed off and stepped away from the mic, walking off stage with deliberate, confident motions and returning seconds later with a shining metal axe in his hand.

It was now that Schlatt began to panic. He thought he could be apathetic in this. He thought Wilbur had destroyed him. The axe glinted in the sunset’s light. He thought wrong.

His breath caught in his chest. “I think a fitting punishment is to remove this tyrant’s—this monster’s—horns. The mark of the devil, many people know them as. I think you understand where I’m going with this.” Wilbur crouched down to meet Schlatt’s level, grabbing his horn and pulling his head up to look him in the eyes. The sword at his throat moved away slightly, Tommy’s unwavering form taking a single step back as Wilbur smiled something faux-sweet right in Schlatt’s face.

“You look like a gem, pet.” That name again. He couldn’t stand that name. Wilbur was whispering, leaning in close to his ear so he could feel the warm breath on his face. “It’s a Sunday, why don’t you say a prayer?” Schlatt groaned, low and plaintive. With so many people watching, he couldn’t lean into the hand in his hair, no matter how good the warmth felt in the middle of all the cold. He hated himself for wanting to.

A smirk playing on his face, Wilbur stood, and Schlatt’s heart threatened to break his chest. Another wave of panic hit, stealing him from the momentary comfort of contact. The eyes boring holes into his body were unbearable, stabbing and scouring and picking apart until there was nothing left to see but a broken man and a shattered image.

When he looked up, he saw Wilbur silhouetted in a brilliant golden light, reflections cast from the glass and metal built into the stage. He looked angelic. He always did. 

The axe was at his side, lifted to be level with Schlatt’s horn. Everyone was looking to him for a reaction. Everyone wanted him to act. How many speeches had he made just for the sake of it? How many laws put in place to spite Wilbur? To spite the people? They deserved a performance, didn’t they? 

Looking to the orange sky, he felt a sense of finality welling within him. This… the end of his administration. The end of his reign. He bowed his head, hands shaking as they gripped the wooden floor next to his knees. 

He felt the blade come to rest at the base of his right horn. “I want you to ask.” Wilbur pressed the axe down with the smallest amount of pressure. Schlatt resisted the urge to jerk away from it.

“What?” The sound of his own voice startled him, broken and quiet and nothing of what it was. The distant smell of smoke tightened his chest. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, _ he couldn’t breathe. _

A frustrated sigh, all for show. “I want you to ask me to do it.”

His mind cast back to the farm. The ram got no better. Its horn grew back even worse and its temperament had been ruined. Schlatt’s parents didn’t want to keep paying medical bills to keep it alive, so it was sent to slaughter. Schlatt had sobbed and cradled it in his arms the Sunday it was due to go, muttering apologies until his mother dragged him away. He swore he saw the fear in its eyes as they were pulled apart.

They went to church that day. His chest felt like a black hole, being eaten from the inside by mites of guilt and horror. In his young mind, this was his fault. His fault the ram died. His fault for trying to save it. He cried while the pastor led the service, his mother’s hand on his shoulder doing nothing to comfort him as light poured in through stained-glass windows. Hatred burned through his bones when he recited the prayer.

_ California dreamin' (California dreamin') _

_ On such a winter's day _

That might have been the day he stopped believing in god. He couldn’t be sure.

Wilbur stood over him, the axe pushing further into the base of his horn, enough now that it stung. Nerves sparked and shocks of pain pulsed in his skull, like the beginnings of a headache, causing him to shake and his posture to crumple. The request Wilbur had given played back in his mind.

“Do it, motherfucker,” he spat out. Some pressure was taken off. He felt the crowd pull back, vision blurring with tears he didn’t dare let go. Wilbur didn’t move. He was waiting for more. 

Fuck it. “Please… please just—just fucking—get it over with!” His throat hurt. The crowd murmured. They had no idea what he’d been through, what Wilbur had done to him. All they saw was a man broken in less than a week. All they saw was weakness. 

Wilbur smiled, terrible and perfect all at once, and Schlatt couldn’t find it in himself to hate him. The axe was raised. Schlatt took one last look over the crowd. One last look at the sunset. 

Then he saw them.

There at the back of the swarm, standing on a raised piece of dirt, was a man and a boy. The man, surrounded by the glowing red of the sun, his green robe flowing in the breeze, still and statuesque. From his back, two large, grey wings opened up, slicing the sky and resting proudly undamaged behind his form, beams of light filtering through like stained glass. The boy next to him, anger and fear evident in his face, brown hair freshly cut and clothes ever so distant from the suit he once wore. He held a sword in his hand.

Phil and Tubbo were watching, and Wilbur… he hadn’t noticed. To Schlatt’s side, Tommy began to shake, knuckles white with the force of his hold on his sword. He’d seen them too. Schlatt almost laughed.

Then the axe came down, cutting through the air and burying itself deep into Schlatt’s horn. He screamed in shock before the pain even hit, but when it did, it was like nothing he’d ever felt. A stab to the stomach, a dislocated shoulder, broken ribs, all paled compared to the feeling of his skull being split like this. Electricity and fire and freezing ice in his veins all at once. The horn had been cut through halfway, keratin sliced open revealing the bone inside, a horrible, burning divide. 

Wilbur laughed. He fucking  _ cackled  _ at the sight of it. The axe was raised a second time, and pure, primal fear coursed through Schlatt’s soul. Adrenaline buzzed inside him, the searing headache only clouding his thoughts enough to make his next actions excusably stupid.

_ All the leaves are brown (All the leaves are brown) _

_ And the sky is gray (And the sky is gray) _

_ I've been for a walk (I've been for a walk) _

_ On a winter's day (On a winter's day) _

The blade came down a second time, another attempt to cut clean through the bone, and Schlatt bit down on his tongue before throwing his head to the side, dragging the weight of the axe, and Wilbur, along with him. A terrible  _ snap _ echoed through the air, and he screamed again, but this time he felt the right side of his head become lighter, and he heard something hit the floor, and then he was up, up and running and jumping off the stage. 

Wilbur may have been tall, but he was far too light. Schlatt knew he was strong. He knew his movement had nearly pulled Wilbur’s arm out of its socket. He also knew he must have looked like a wild animal, sprinting past the crowd and towards the angel behind them. Someone was shouting, but he didn’t dare to turn back, vision tunnelling down and down until he could only see Phil and Tubbo and nothing else. His head pounded, one side of him feeling far too light and his legs screaming in pain from lack of use. It didn’t matter. He had to get away.

Phil caught him in his arms, pulling him along and running away from the stage and the people and the noise. Tubbo yelled something, but neither man listened, fear blocking Schlatt’s thoughts and shock blocking Phil’s.

A hand wrapped around Schlatt’s back, strong and comforting. His legs kept pushing forwards, away, away, away from Wilbur. The side of his head thrummed, the world spinning as Phil hauled him away, Tubbo not far behind. The crowd didn’t follow, only watching, watching, watching and someone called his name, but he didn’t know who.

There was a portal, built hastily and from scraps, glowing bright purple over a small hill. Schlatt’s eyes widened, realising how the two saviours arrived. He let out a noise as they ran towards it, freedom so close he could feel it in his chest. Phil’s wings flapped behind them, the extra force pushing them along. Tubbo grabbed his arm and his legs gave out, buckling under him, numb.

The portal’s heat pulsed against his face, ever closer. Footsteps were coming up behind them. So close. So close. Schlatt’s mind buzzed, words failing as his exhaustion caught up with him. He was being carried, maybe. Vision fuzzed in and out. A hand was at his head. 

The world went black.

_ If I didn't tell her (If I didn't tell her) _

_ I could leave today (I could leave today) _

_ California dreamin' (California dreamin') _

_ On such a winter's day (California dreamin') _

_ On such a winter's day, (California dreamin') _

_ On such a winter's day _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to leave a comment :D have a great day!
> 
> it ain't gay to make the homie kneel and call them p-*gets shot again*


	5. Heal The Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comfort comes from the worst of places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, happy holidays? Not sure if this is a very nice Christmas gift, but it's what you're gettin' anyway! Please take note of the new number of chapters (yes, I increased it again) and the new tags! Sorry for the two-week wait on this chapter instead of my usual one week, I've been busy with Christmas stress and revising for my mock exams in January. Hopefully, I can make up for it with the quality of the chapter. 
> 
> Heed the new tags. Merry Christmas to those who celebrate! If I keep up my schedule, I'll see you all again in a week.

_ Let me tell you a secret _

_ Put it in your heart and then keep it _

_ Something that I want you to know _

The next few days were a blur of half-consciousness and headaches. Schlatt picked up bits and pieces, the occasional movement here, the mumbled word there. But most of the time there was nothing, and he thought maybe that was what death is like. Slights of pain, an empty void. He struggled to breathe.

A mirror, a closet, a desk. They stood around the centre bed like guards. The window was small but not claustrophobic, and floral curtains blocked the light out. Shapes of these things passed Schlatt by with his resting mind. They felt safe. Like home.

When he woke up for real, he laughed. The vague outline of an angel stared down at him, a halo of light falling across blond hair. He’d half-expected to open his eyes and be right back in his cell, cold and alone and scared. Or he thought maybe he’d awaken in hell. And it still scared him, sure, the thought of death and the premise of imprisonment, but heavy blankets stole the chill from his bones and the angel gave him a smile that made him feel less solitary—like he was okay. That might have just been Phil’s nature (because it  _ was _ Phil, not one of God’s messengers).

“Hey,” he croaked out before a rush of nausea overtook him. He vomited over the side of the bed, coughing up phlegm and acid. His throat burnt with it. A warm hand rested against his spine as he heaved, and his mind fizzed, instincts warning him to flinch away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, instead leaning into the touch as he choked on air and saltwater running into his mouth. 

Huge grey wings extended around Schlatt’s shaking form, creating a wall between himself and the rest of the room. The feathers looked strong but soft, and if he didn’t know better, he would have reached out to pet them. But Alex always hated when people touched his wings. Maybe it was a common trait.

Alex. Quackity.  _ Wilbur _ . “Oh, God.” He retched again until nothing came up. Phil said something, but he didn’t hear it, blurring out with the rest of his thoughts. Hot tears fell from his face, soaking into the bedsheets. The hand on his back left, and he whined at the loss, despite his mind shedding relief at the extra breathing space. What was wrong with him?

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay,” Phil said, a beacon of comfort. Schlatt let out a pathetic noise of anguish, feeling like his head was on fire as every memory came back to him in firecracker flashes. Were his friends okay? Was Wilbur looking for him? Where was he now?

Phil’s house, probably, but where that was in relation to everything else, he had no idea. Oh, Christ, he had to go back. He couldn’t leave everyone to suffer. He couldn’t leave.  _ He shouldn’t have left. _

_ Do something for me _

_ Listen to my simple story _

_ And maybe we'll have something to show _

It was then Schlatt registered the imbalance of weight on his head. He lifted a hand up to the right of his skull, trembling as Phil watched with concern. His fingers brushed over split keratin and dried blood and a crooked stump of bone, cringing when he pressed too hard against the rough edge. The horn had been severed at the base, leaving him with an asymmetrical silhouette and the last of his dignity cut away. It felt wrong. His body was wrong.

Quackity’s rosary still hung from the other horn, beads clacking against it as he moved. He grimaced at the sound. “What the hell happened?” His own voice felt foreign to him, unpolished and timid and quiet. Phil moved away, stepping back from the bed and folding his wings back behind himself. Lines of emotion, neat and contained, settled on his face.

“Tubbo ran away after the festival. He found me and told me what Wilbur had done… we were coming to stop him when we saw you. It was brave, what you did.” Rot-smell drifted up from the carpet, the bedroom filling with it. Phil hesitated, hand moving at his side as if he wanted to reach out, but thought against it.

Schlatt let his hands reach up and unwrap the rosary beads from his horn, pulling it down until he held the crucifix in his hand. Staring at it, he felt an odd sense of distaste from the item, the cross bearing weight he didn’t know how to address. A fleeting sensation of horror caused him to drop the thing onto the bed, backing away from it and burying himself in the covers. He didn’t feel brave.

The moment went ignored by both of them. “I know my son. He’s bloody terrifying.” Phil gave him a pointed look. “It takes a lot to cross him, and you’ve crossed him more times than I can count, heh.” This didn’t fill Schlatt with confidence. In fact, quite the opposite.

“What if he finds me?” The words were raw, hanging in the air like an omen. Phil’s comforting demeanour shifted into something else, and a flash of panic ran through him. Maybe it was the family resemblance, but Phil looked an awful lot like Wilbur when he looked to the wall like that, deep in thought. Schlatt shivered.

An uncomfortable beat, and the question went unanswered. “You need to eat something, then I’ll put disinfectant on your horn. You can come help Tubbo with the garden if you want.” A pause, and Phil smiled. “Or, it used to be a farm, but then Techno left, so now it’s a garden.” Schlatt’s eyes went wide at the mention of Phil’s eldest son.

“Techno… he—his arm—”

He cut him off. “It’s alright, mate, I saw. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” The bedsheets were suddenly too warm, too constricting, and yet Schlatt still wanted to hide under them. Everything hit him at once.

The want to scream came over him. “Why are you helping me? I exiled your son… I—I ruined everything. I pushed him to madness!” His voice cracked. Heavy guilt crushed his chest like a boot (don’t think about that) and Phil gave a contemplative frown. 

It was true, Schlatt had been a bastard during his short Presidency. He’d raised taxes and enforced unfair laws and fallen deeper into the liquor bottle than he ever had before, but Phil rescued him. He rescued the man that drove his son to do things he could never come back from. He rescued a tyrant.

_ You tell me you're cold on the inside _

_ How can the outside world _

_ Be a place that your heart can embrace _

The response was simple. “There’s good in everyone, and you’ve been hurt. I want to help fix what my son did.” A motion to his horns. Schlatt sighed, but nodded. The man was too good for this world. It fit that Tubbo would end up here. He always knew the kid wasn’t cruel enough to be in the government. If he had stayed (if Wilbur hadn’t destroyed everything) it would have corrupted him just like it did everyone else.

A smile from Phil, then the man turned to leave. Schlatt watched him, eyes flicking between him and the rosary beads lost amongst folded bedsheets, uncertainty playing at his mind. He could ask Phil to take it away, remove the burning question of his own faith and the haunting reminder of his friend, but that would be… he might have to explain. Besides, he would want it later, no doubt.

He’d almost missed the man leaving. “Phil,” he called. The old owl turned to look at him, hand on the doorframe. Schlatt took a breath, then glanced down, mites of guilt returning. He felt like a kid again. “Thank you.”

\--------------

Techno was many things—smart, strong, ruthless—but he wasn’t a coward. So why did he just stand and watch as the prisoner escaped his brother’s side? Why did he stare his father in the face and not move at all? He didn’t know. He didn’t know why he did a lot of things these days.

Wilbur had almost killed him after what happened. He saved himself with the excuse of his missing arm, telling his brother he didn’t want to risk fighting and getting hurt with no weapon and no dominant hand. He’d made Tommy’s excuse for him, something about loyalty and shock and other believable things. At least the kid didn’t get the brunt of Wilbur’s rage.

So now, the two of them stood in Wilbur’s office in The White House, the man himself at his desk with Techno standing to the side. Wilbur mumbled to himself while searching through piles of unsigned documents, lines of stress clear against his face as he turned over paper stacks and beige files. Such was the life of a ruler. 

God, Techno hated it. “Why are you doin’ this?” His words, careful but judging, were the only bit of criticism his brother would take. If anyone else said something like that… well, they wouldn’t have a good day. 

“What do you mean? I thought you were all for taking down tyrannical governments?” Wilbur laughed, flipping a piece of paper and scribbling something down. Oh, bureaucracy. 

The place where Techno’s right arm should be stung, impossible cramps shooting to his spine. He winced, clenching and unclenching his left fist. “I’m more of a  _ general _ anarchist, but that’s not what I meant. You won, why cause so much extra damage?” He thought back to the look on Quackity’s face when they ran into each other in the half-built town, how he’d refused to meet his eyes and made space for wings that weren’t there. Then the same expression was shared by Fundy and Niki, and Techno didn’t want to be in town anymore.

It was depressing. Wilbur had already explained why he took Techno’s arm, giving himself reassurance that he wouldn’t be betrayed. Techno knew that was bullshit, that all his reasons were bullshit, and that all he wanted was power and control. That’s all he ever wanted. Since they were kids.

_ Be good to yourself _

_ 'Cause nobody else _

_ Has the power to make you happy _

“Have you ever read The Merchant Of Venice?” Wilbur asked, a casual smile playing at his lips. The air between them grew thicker, a tension brewing in Wilbur’s dark eyes as he stared Techno down.

He nodded. “Shakespeare? Sure.” The text was familiar to him, the work being something he studied back when he lived with Phil. Thinking on it, he recalled heavy themes of dishonesty, revenge, and faith. Somehow, scholars had labelled it a comedy. Wilbur seemed to lighten at his recognition.

“Then you understand. I’ve been wronged, exiled, treated like shit by Schlatt and his administration. All I want is my compensation. My ‘pound of flesh’, if you will. Everyone has a price to pay.” He flashed a grin, showing off sharp teeth. A simple trait he’d picked up somewhere in the family genetics that made him look terrifying under the light of sunset. Techno wondered if people saw his blood-red eyes and felt the same way.

What Wilbur had said caught up with him. “You realise you’re literally comparing yourself to the  _ villain _ of the play, right?” And that was the wrong thing to say. The voices in Techno’s head cried out when Wilbur slammed his fist against the desk.

“I want Schlatt back. I want  _ dad _ to stay out of this. You don’t understand. You were always the golden child!” He screamed it with such boiling anger that Techno took a step back. Something in the deepest section of his mind muttered that this was fear. The persistent shake in his hand agreed.

Wilbur coughed and adjusted his posture, straightening out his jacket in smooth, practised motions. Techno thought he looked like Schlatt from back when they used to be friends, back when they competed in games together (and won, once). A cunning businessman who lost his temper often enough that no one quite took him seriously. They often ended up with the worse half of the deal nonetheless. 

The constant readjustments were never just for show with Schlatt, as Techno picked up early on. It was a grounding technique. It calmed him, like he took on a different persona.

You get to know a lot about people if you stay quiet and act as nothing but a weapon. The same action on Wilbur looked forced, as if he was convincing himself he had everything under control when he didn’t. Techno knew he didn’t. His brother was one insult away from snapping.    


“Independence or death, that’s what this nation was built on.” Wilbur rested his hands against his desk, staring at them with unreadable eyes. Techno frowned, feeling the urge to pick up a sword that wasn’t there with a hand that didn’t exist. Something about that look, about Wilbur’s expression, sent cold chills down his spine.

A sigh, then Wilbur smiled. Something unhinged. “It’s just a shame they chose death.”

\--------------

Schlatt sat on his bed, a day of cautious farm work behind him. Tubbo had seemed pleased to see him alive, and he’d picked up most of the conversation himself, teaching about the different crops and flowers and helping the former-president plant them. It was horrible in its simplicity, but also rewarding.

He hadn’t the heart nor the confidence to tell the kid he already knew how to farm. 

Now, alone, his thoughts were scattered. Phantom feelings throwing him through loops as he tried to sit comfortably. There was a constant pressure on the right side of his head, a warm hand running through his hair and tracing the layer of broken keratin surrounding the bone of his horn. The motions were gentle, kind. He wished they were real.

_ How can I help you? _

_ Please let me try to _

The voice whispering in his ear, making him feel wretched and sanctified, called to him. It hushed warm breaths against the exposed bone at his head; it brought fear greater than anything he’d ever felt into his heart; it pushed him into a cavern of endless void with a sharpened smile. A desire to have that again, for real, crossed his mind.

At the same time, he felt disgusted with himself. Those touches, that hand, it was all Wilbur. It was all the grace of faux-comfort after he gleefully indulged in his pain. To want that? To want any of it was a potent testament to how starved he was of affection. Sure, Alex had been there, with the occasional shoulder touch or brief smile (not in those last days, where they barely spoke) but he hadn’t been just  _ held _ for so long. Like he meant something. Like he was cared for.

In his absent state, he didn’t notice Phil walk in. 

“Good evening, Schlatt.” The voice caused Schlatt to tense up, but he relaxed when he saw who it was. He gave Phil a nod of acknowledgement, not trusting himself to speak yet. Phil smiled. He held something in his arms, hidden from Schlatt’s line of sight.

The item was placed down on the bed. “It’s a prosthetic horn! Tubbo noticed how you were struggling to balance with just one, so I thought I’d make you something to counteract the weight.” Schlatt blinked. Huh?

It was white or cream, blending in with the bedsheets. The prosthetic was sized and curled just like his real horn, but it was smooth and hollow, containing no bone, which he thought could be an issue, but the way it sunk into the bed showed its weight. Intricate designs of red and gold flowers wrapped around the skin, creating a china-plate look. Schlatt took a breath.

“It’s…”  _ beautiful, amazing, a work of art, _ “nice.”

Phil grinned. “It’s porcelain. Tubbo painted the designs.” Despite the flamboyance of it, Schlatt didn’t feel demeaned by the stunning prosthetic. Unlike the ornamental jewellery Wilbur dressed him with, this was a genuine gift, something Phil and Tubbo made him so he was more comfortable. He would wear it with pride.

_ I can heal the pain  _

_ That you're feeling inside _

More guilt washed over him, then. “Phil, I don’t know how to repay you—” he gave a lopsided smile—“You’re such an asshole, doin’ all this good shit for me when I can’t give you anythin’ in return.” He let a harsher tone bite through, strength of character regained, but sentiment left the same. Phil laughed and shook his head, much the reaction Schlatt thought he would get. Curse the old man.

“Don’t be silly. We’re just trying to help! No need to repay anything.” Of course not. Schlatt rolled his eyes, but appreciated the words all the same. For a second, he thought about his previous run-ins with Phil, before he even knew Wilbur. They’d stormed towers and explored forests and killed beasts together. That was a long time ago. He’d almost forgotten.

If Phil was disappointed in how his friend had turned out, he didn’t show it. “Now, it should just slide over the base of the horn, and it needs nothing to fasten it, I enchanted it so it’ll only come off when you want it to. That way you don’t need to worry about breaking it in your sleep!” The prosthetic shone under lamplight. Schlatt wondered how long it had taken Tubbo to paint. He never knew the kid was so skilled.

“Thank you.” Then an idea struck. “Do you have a bee farm?” A shake of the head, no.

“Then that’s my new project.” Phil raised an eyebrow, and Schlatt scoffed. “Don’t look so shocked, old man. I’m more than just a pretty face.” His face probably looked anything but pretty right now, but he felt a little faux-confidence might get Phil to quit looking at him with all that sadness in his eyes. The man only nodded and left him to his thoughts.

Wilbur would call him pretty. In the worst ways possible. He’d break his nose with his fist and get blood in his eyes and still run sharp compliments over his skin like shining blades. Cut him open and watch the rivers of blood and burning hot tears. The sweetest, most demeaning bouts of pain. He’d hold him close while he cried and bled and it would be messed up, but it’d be okay. He’d be fine. Because whatever horrible things were done to him, Wilbur had said it himself: he didn’t want Schlatt dead. If he was with him, he’d be safe from what he feared the most. Forever.

A disjointed memory came to mind, one of healing potions and dulling agony. Fingertips at his jaw, thoughts too broken for dread, brought to the edge of death and pulled back again by loving hands. He craved that closeness. An intimacy he’d never known existed, at the verge of nothingness. He  _ wanted _ it.

Schlatt shuddered, looking down at his hands in horror. No. He just escaped. He was  _ free _ . He didn’t want to go back, and he didn’t want to see Wilbur. All he wanted was for his friends to get away. For Alex and Fundy and, hell, even Niki to run as fast as they could away from the monster. Run to Phil and his nice little house and his kind words and Tubbo’s garden that used to be Techno’s and  _ don’t think about Techno. _

And yet some part of him still… no. It wasn’t right. He didn’t need it. He didn’t need Wilbur. None of this—he couldn’t—what the fuck was he thinking? 

_ Whenever you want me _

_ You know that I will be _

_ Waiting for the day _

_ That you say you'll be mine _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sits here. Screams. 
> 
> Anyway it isn't gay if you're touch-starved.
> 
> Leaves.
> 
> ...
> 
> Oh wait I forgot to ask you to comment and say I hope you have a nice day oh no oh shit-


	6. The Sea Of Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at a relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all... how y'all doing? 
> 
> Sorry this chapter took so long to come out. Personal stuff and fandom stuff all kind of collided at once and really demotivated me. The past few weeks I've been finding out new stuff every day about my exams this year and it's been very stressful, then a lot of things happened online, which if you know what I'm talking about, were not good. But I finally got my spark back after this week's streams! So the update is here :D
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this chapter as I'm quite proud of it. It jumps around a lot in time and reality, so hopefully it's not too confusing!
> 
> TW: descriptions of drowning.

_ Oh we’ll be old and weary friends _

_ God bless let all this never end _

Schlatt stood on a sheet of ice, feet placed against the cold. Around him, a void, vast stretches of darkness fading out into the ice until the horizon blurred with obscurity. Nothing else. Just ice, freezing to the touch, even with shoes on his feet, a nothing sky and a nothing land.

The world cracked in an oppressive abyss, crushing down on him despite being so infinite and open. It wasn’t like a room getting smaller, crushing the helpless victim inside, it was the antithesis. The endless, inevitable nature of it provided him loneliness which constricted like a python wrapped around his chest, squeezing harder and harder until his ribs broke, puncturing his lungs and leaving him gasping on the ground, the life fading, fading, fading until there was nothing left. 

He looked down, the movement smooth, leaving behind a faint mist of himself. Chemtrails of his form floated as vapour, a ghost-like effect which evaporated into the blackened nothing. 

Underneath his feet, the ice creaked. It was white and diaphanous, vague dark shapes moving below. Schlatt grimaced. A light seemed to come from below, pale blue under his shoes moving when he stepped forward, following him. Upon further study, Schlatt found that the shapes under the ice were getting smaller, as if falling. He shivered, full-bodied and involuntary, at the thought of ice water filling his lungs, pulling him down, muscles failing with no hand outstretched to help him.

Memories of a different time made themselves known in a harsh and unwelcome fashion, flashing in the black sky, perhaps in his mind, perhaps in reality. Water filling a basin made from mountains, two young men struggling to escape the steady and rapid flood. Becoming trapped under an unending lake, unable to swim up, too stubborn to accept help, suffocating in his watertight home. Christ. 

Maybe he deserved to have one life left, eh?

The ice cracked with his next step. He froze, heartbeat picking up as he looked down. It was like something out of a bad movie, the way each tiny split in the ice grew exponentially below, but the fear that coursed through his veins was real. 

A light in the distance caught his attention, bringing it away from the ice just as it gave way. He screamed, plunging into the freezing depths, unable to catch a breath before his body was submerged. His arms thrashed against the water, every part of him trying to swim up to the surface, but the current that pulled him under was too strong. Bubbles of air released from his mouth and liquid flooded his throat, filling his lungs and making him choke in painful, delirious stutters. 

Below him was another person, familiar only in shadow, sinking lifeless to the sand. Two brilliant golden wings fanned out against the blues of the water, and Schlatt cried out with the last air he had. The world around him was slipping away, bit by bit, darkness getting impossibly darker as his consciousness collapsed in on itself. This was it. This was the end.

But did it matter, when the only person who cared was dead at the bottom of the lake? Maybe it was best to join him. He looked so peaceful. This all seemed so peaceful.

A hand reached for him through the surface of the water, shining with light. Schlatt knew he should be dead by now, but it didn’t bother him. He could hear the water sloshing in his own chest. Quackity’s body lay in a bed of sand and mud. The hand was the same that had been haunting him every moment he was alone. He had a choice to make.

He woke up.

_ And all we left _

_ And all we know _

The dream had been strange, but it settled something in Schlatt’s mind that had been plaguing him for days. It hadn’t been long since Phil rescued him, offering warmth and healing and sympathy. He’d built a small bee farm in gratitude, knowing it would make Tubbo happy (it did) and he’d started to get used to the prosthetic horn balancing the weight on his head.

Thoughts of Wilbur came rushing in at every opportunity, especially when he had no one else to keep his mind away. He’d had nightmares about what happened for the first three nights, waking up screaming and shaking and waking Phil up (but not Tubbo, who he learnt was deaf in one ear from the explosion) then sobbing into the poor man’s shoulder as his mind fought itself over whether he even wanted to be held.

This time was different. The image of Quackity, sickly and unmoving, was scorched into his mind, along with the unsettling relief he’d felt as his own body sank below the ice. Wilbur’s hand, shining like an angel’s, was there to save him. Some sick part of his mind must have thought that would be funny. And then all of it linked back to… 

Those were times he’d rather not remember. Back when he and Wilbur were friends. Actual friends, not two people destined to destroy each other. 

“Where are you going?” Phil asked. He’d walked into Schlatt’s room to find him packing a small bag. It only held essentials. Food, water, a few bandages and a knife. Schlatt didn’t know what he would need. He didn’t know what his plan was yet. 

The desired outcome of the plan was for Quackity to be safe, along with anyone else who needed saving. Phil stood in the way, blocking the doorframe with his wings. The feathers reminded Schlatt of the reason he was doing this. Or what he hoped was the reason. He didn’t want to look too deep into it.   
  
Without looking Phil in the eye, Schlatt answered his question. “Away. Can’t stay here.” He’d never been a man of many words, but now even less so. Wilbur had beaten the sharp bites of wit out of him, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Phil. The man knew what he meant by ‘away’. He wasn’t stupid.

“Wilbur is dangerous.” Phil stretched his wings even further. “You need to recover. Stay, please.” The room smelt like a sharp, sweet disinfectant. Schlatt had been using it to keep the base of his severed horn clean. The last thing he needed was an infection. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now it seemed to overpower everything.    
  
He pushed at Phil’s shoulder. “I’m not sick. I need to help. Alex is out there, suffering. All of them are—”   
  
“Schlatt.” It was a stern word, a warning. Schlatt didn’t listen to it.   
  
“I have to stop him.” His voice was quiet, the words raw and swimming with emotions that neither man could explain. Phil frowned, his wings folding back behind his body. It was early in the morning still, and Tubbo wasn’t awake yet. If he left now, there would be no tears.

_ And all we laugh together _

_ And who alone _   
  
Schlatt heard the older man sigh. “Promise me you’ll come back safe.” There was a slight tremor to what he said, an underlying plea. The ram hybrid realised at that moment that Phil had lost all three of his sons, not to war or disease, but to themselves, to greed, to hubris. Now he was asking for Schlatt to not let himself fall too.   
  
“Mate, come on. Promise me.” It was horrible, but Schlatt knew he couldn’t promise shit. Whatever happened when he got to L’Manburg, it would not be easy. He could get hurt, he could die, he could not come back. He didn’t have the heart to lie to a father who had already lost so much.

So he shook his head. “Goodbye, Phil.”

\--------------

“You don’t even care about me!” Quackity screamed in the President’s face. They had been arguing for hours now, neither could remember what about. It was night, a small lamp illuminating Schlatt’s office and the moon silhouetting the man himself as he stood from his desk. A bottle of something Quackity couldn’t identify swung from his hand.   
  
He scowled at the Vice President. “Because you’re useless, Q! I’ll start caring once you learn to pull your goddamn weight!” Quackity cringed at the smell of alcohol hitting his face, disgust welling in his chest as he glared at his superior.

“You know what? Fuck you. I’m done with this shit. Call me when you’re sober, asshole.” He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, the same as always. Schlatt might have told him to wait, or maybe it was just another insult. He didn’t care.

The door slammed shut, causing the entire building to quake with the force. Quackity paused and shuddered a sigh. He felt like crying. Everything had gone so wrong. It left this awful sour taste in his mouth whenever he thought about it, or after arguments like this one. Remembering how this started, the celebrations they’d made when they won the election. Why couldn’t Schlatt see he was trying to help? Why couldn’t he help himself?

Whatever happened between them didn’t matter. The next day, they would just be the President and Vice President. Laws would be put forward, Quackity would let them pass, even if he didn’t always agree, and Schlatt would give someone a vague and pissed-off enough threat to have the day to himself. No interruptions. He could relax, but he never did.

(Quackity always tried to tell him he was working himself to death, but the ram never listened).

When days were good, Schlatt was one of his closest friends. They were partners, in business and in life, or that’s what Quackity liked to believe. Things were complicated for both of them, every day bringing up a new string of raw and horrid emotions. Sometimes they would fight, screaming hurtful words until their voices gave out and every breath felt like pulling their throat against sandpaper. Sometimes they would sit out on the balcony behind The White House, or maybe at Quackity’s place, and they’d drink champagne and talk about nothing and watch the stars, falling asleep on each other like nothing else mattered in the world. 

_ Sang how we sing _

_ Knew how we know _

The door was cold against Quackity’s face as he leaned up against it to listen to the aftermath of their fight. Muttered curses graced his ears, accompanied by a bass line of pacing footsteps. Then the sound of a bottle being cracked open, his queue to leave. He didn’t need to listen to his friend drink himself to sleep.

Their argument had been over something stupid, he didn’t even remember what, but it had escalated into hurling insults as it always did. Quackity tried not to let it hurt him, knowing that his volatile friend had been made this way by stress and paranoia and alcohol, but at night he would still cry about it and wonder what had gone so rotten in their relationship. It was like an infected, dead animal left to decay, hidden underneath the floorboards, making them wonder what the rancid smell was. But they couldn’t find it. 

Maybe it would never be found, and the whole house would start to smell like death, and then one of them would leave, and the other would go mad trying to find what had caused it all to happen, tearing the house apart until they discovered the skeleton far too late. Quackity wondered who would be the one to leave, and who would be the one to prolong their own suffering. He also wondered when he had gotten so carried away with his metaphors.

A week later, one long and stressful night before the festival, Schlatt brought him a cup of coffee. A simple thing, steaming in a white cup. They hadn’t spoken since their last fight, only talking in formalities and orders to keep working. No words were exchanged then either, but the gesture almost made Quackity cry into his paperwork, the tension evaporating from his shoulders.

In that cup, forgiveness, apology, and care. The room didn’t smell like alcohol after Schlatt left, and Quackity ran his hand over his rosary and thanked God for it all. He was unsure if God was listening. Probably not, but that wasn’t what mattered.

When he saw Schlatt knelt upon the stage, as if in praise before Wilbur, trembling hands gripping the wooden ground, scratching like an animal, desperate to get away and yet making no move to run, he felt sick. When he saw that same rosary hanging from his friend’s horn, dressed up like an ornament and ready to be taken, utter sacrilege in the nature of it all, he felt sicker. He wished they had talked before the festival, regret burning into his chest. If they had only spoken. If they had some sort of closure. If they weren’t cowards, too afraid to use words. 

Schlatt’s eyes met his own, coffee hues swirling with terror, and he felt his throat go dry. Why did everything have to be so cruel? His back stung with phantom pains as the axe was raised, and he felt such sadness for not only the loss of his wings, but for everyone’s loss to the madman they once called a friend.

Right before the axe came down, Quackity saw Schlatt say something under his breath. Wilbur had already forced the broken man to plead for the sadistic actions to begin, but this was different. In his eyes, there was shock—recognition—then agony as the axe broke through keratin and bone. 

He was a fool to think Schlatt had said his name. When the second swing of the axe connected with the exposed bone, the ram jerked his head away, causing the horn to break with a terrible snap, as well as pulling Wilbur to the side. Quackity would have laughed if he wasn’t so scared for his friend’s life. He pretended not to hear Wilbur’s shouts to the crowd to stop the fleeing hybrid. Everyone else did the same.

_ And all we’ll ask forever _

_ Is may we grow _

It all happened so fast, he barely caught a glimpse of Phil and Tubbo escaping with Schlatt through a portal. There was yelling and confusion and uproar from the crowd, and he didn’t know what to do. So he went home, slipping away amongst the chaos.

That night, Quackity thought up hundreds of ways things could have gone differently. What if they had never banished Wilbur? What if Schlatt hadn’t run? What if Quackity followed to the Nether? The endless hypotheticals wouldn’t let him sleep, and neither would the painful cramps in his back.

The mangled mess of tissue and muscle that used to attach his wings to his body twinged in discomfort. When Wilbur had taken a blade to his flesh and ripped that part of him away, he knew it would never heal, but he didn’t think it would be like this. Something hurting that he couldn’t fix, because it wasn’t real. Something belonging to him, taken with no thought or remorse, turned into jewellery for another’s execution. Because that’s what it was, an execution, when Wilbur decided to take his wings, or Schlatt’s horns, or Techno’s arm. He was killing a part of them. 

Lying in bed, he thought about Fundy, and how he’d hidden his face when they spoke after the festival. Quackity didn’t understand what was wrong with the fox, but he doubted it was Wilbur’s doing. Why would the man hurt his own son? It didn’t make sense.

None of it made sense. The people of L’Manburg had been spared, save from the few who got caught in the explosion, and yet those closest to Wilbur were the ones to suffer the most. Niki’s bakery had been burnt in the explosion (or so Wilbur claimed) and she had been on Wilbur’s side, fighting against Schlatt at every stage of his presidency. There was something wrong with Tommy, too, always so quiet and shaky and unsure of himself in a way that Quackity had never seen before. Whatever happened to him in that year of exile, it wasn’t good.

He thought he’d be killed, but instead, he was maimed and released as a citizen. Wilbur put his family in the cabinet, of course, but then why would he take Techno’s arm? Surely he needed the protection. Surely rendering the server’s most powerful man useless was illogical. Quackity didn’t get it. He didn’t get any of it. 

Then he’d seen the look in Wilbur’s eyes as he stood over Schlatt, and he understood. It wasn’t about logic; it was about power. Something he’d gotten so used to as Vice President. He wished he couldn’t see Wilbur as a distorted mirror image of himself. There was a reason he didn’t  _ kill _ anyone. There was a reason he hurt Techno. There was a reason for the theatrics and the targeting and the unfairness.

It was simple, really. Everyone wanted power. Wilbur just wanted more. He would do anything to get that power, to consolidate it and keep it held tight to his chest like a miser with gold. And that’s the way it would stay, because he’d torn down every threat to that power, even his own siblings. Even his own son.

_ Oh we’ll be old and weary friends _

_ God bless that all this never end _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas it ain't gay to stargaze with the homie-*gets shot again*
> 
> Anyways hope you all have a lovely day and drop a comment if you enjoyed! I read and reply to every single one :) and I appreciate them a lot!
> 
> I also have a couple of questions for my readers now that we are six chapters into the story :D if you can, take the time to answer them, that would make my day! If not, don't worry, just leave a short comment or whatever you like :)
> 
> 1\. First of all, comments on this chapter?  
> 2\. How is the pacing of the story so far? Are things moving too slow, too fast? What needs more/less attention in order to fix this?  
> 3\. Is the characterisation interesting to you? Does it feel 'realistic'? Does it make sense with the canon/alternative canon I have established?  
> 4\. Are the chapters a good length?  
> 5\. What/who would you like to see more of (themes, characters, story beats etc)  
> 6\. Are you enjoying the story? This sounds like a silly question but I'd love to know what your favourite parts have been, and how you feel generally about this :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Have a great day :D


	7. Drawn To The Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cogs are set into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks to everyone who answered the questions in the comments from the last chapter (if you missed it, you can still go back and comment if you would like!) they've given me a good amount of insight on how to continue the story. I'm really happy with how this chapter turned out, so if you liked it, please leave a comment!
> 
> I am personally obsessed with the song for this chapter, so go listen to it ASAP. If you want to listen to any of the other songs I used for this fic, just search using the chapter titles!
> 
> Anyway, on to the fic :D enjoy (?)

_ I’m drawn to the blood _

_ The flight of a one-winged dove _

Life had not been kind to Fundy. He was born to parents who were too busy to raise him, one leaving when he was young and the other staging revolutions and elections during his formative years. But he believed his father still loved him, then, even though it wasn’t made clear, because whatever he had now was so far from love, he would be happy to take back what scraps he once had.

The festival had been the worst day of his life. It was supposed to be something good. A celebration of democracy, so Schlatt said. Tubbo spent so long getting the decorations together, it was almost more painful to see them burn than it was to see his own father standing atop a hill, grinning at the destruction he caused. 

There had been rumours, before the day, that Schlatt was going to execute Tubbo on the stage in front of everyone. It had become common knowledge that the boy was a spy; he wasn’t the best at hiding it. But it never happened. No one expected the exile, Fundy’s father, to be the one pulling the trigger that day. 

Chaos owned the country for a day after that. People fleeing their broken homes, businesses run to the ground, families mourning their lost loved ones. Fundy had blacked out sometime between the explosion and Wilbur’s victory speech, and woken up in a cell.

Wilbur hadn’t killed him, nor had he spared him. He brought pliers to his mouth and tore out his canine teeth with a wicked smile on his face. The pain had been worse than anything Fundy had experienced before, even the time he stood on broken glass in Schlatt’s office. And he was only young, so when the cries and pleas left his bleeding mouth, it was beyond his control. He asked for his dad, but that’s not what he wanted. He wanted anything but.

Wilbur had petted his hair and told him it would be okay, soothing tones doing nothing to ease the fear Fundy felt when his father held him. A painkiller made him drowsy, along with the blood loss, and when he awakened again Wilbur told him he was part of the new cabinet. 

So, for the third time in a week, Fundy climbed the stone steps of Eret’s castle, desperate for help. The setting sun cast a deep shadow against the grey walls, cutting across the ground in bold strokes. A pit of anger mixed with anxiety sizzled in Fundy’s head. He’d tried so many times to convince King Eret to use his power, to take down Wilbur, but to no avail. This time he wanted it to be different.

Eret spotted him as soon as he entered the throne room. The man was dressed in obnoxious royal robes, a golden crown sitting atop his head and a jewel-encrusted sceptre hanging from his hand lazily. It was like he didn’t care, as if he saw his kingship as nothing but a title. A costume. 

His sunglasses remained the same as always, showing Fundy his own sad reflection. “Fundy, how are you?” The greeting served as nothing but another reason for Fundy to be pissed.    
  
“How do you think I am?” He snapped out. With no one else would he have the courage to speak like this. Not with Wilbur. Not with Techno. Never with Schlatt. Eret was different.    
  
The air tasted like dust, stuffy despite the size of the room. “I see.” Eret wore a grave expression. “You know if I could do something I would.” Fundy laughed at that. He knew Eret didn’t see him as an idiot, but he treated him like one.    
  
“You  _ could _ do something. Hell, you’re the only one with the power to stop Will.” He’d stop calling Wilbur ‘dad’ a long time ago, further back than the festival. Now he was either Wilbur, Father, or Sir, the latter reserved for when they spoke in-person. If he didn’t use the honorific, who knows what would become of him.

_ How? How did this happen? _

_ How? How did this happen? _   
  
A cough brought Fundy from his thoughts. “Dream said if I step one foot out of this castle, he’ll kill me himself.” He’d heard it before, that excuse. That’s all it was.   
  
Fundy subconsciously pushed his tongue into the gap where his tooth should have been, a nervous habit picked up from his first day in Wilbur’s cabinet. “So? This is more important than your life, Eret! This is the fate of a—a whole country!” His stutter caused a string of curses to erupt in his head. Behind those stupid sunglasses, Eret was probably looking at him as if he was weak. Behind that stupid unchanging frown. The expression reminded him of Phil. Always neutral in the fight.   
  
There’s no merit in neutrality. “Do you even know what he did to me? What he did to Techno? To Quackity? To Schlatt?” Fundy wanted to mention Tommy, and Niki, and everyone else, but the list would never end. How much suffering must be caused before someone takes a stand?

“What… what happened to Schlatt?” Eret’s face fell, even hidden as it was.   
  
Fundy sneered. “It doesn’t fucking matter, the bastard escaped—didn’t bother taking any of us with him, though, the self-serving bitch.” His own words didn’t phase him, spite boiling over. Who was Schlatt to leave them with Wilbur? Who was Schlatt, the weak bastard, to give up after a single week of imprisonment? He talked such big talk when he was in charge, and Fundy looked up to it, thinking it carried the man through good and bad. But no, Schlatt was  _ all _ talk. A coward and an idiot.

The gold sceptre tapped against the ground, a clicking sound ringing out around them. “Fundy. You’re blaming the wrong people.” Eret’s words were deep and harsh. Fundy bristled, his ears folding back so they were flat against his head. 

“I’m blaming you. There’s a goddamn difference,” he spat. Of course he blamed Eret, he was a good man who did nothing when a tyrant came to power. Twice. Twice he stood by. The tension in the air weighed down on his shoulders, but it spurred him on, fuelling his glare and giving him the confidence to bear his teeth for the first time since they were pulled. 

He could see nothing behind Eret’s sunglasses, and he liked it that way. The dark lenses made it easier to hate the man. “You should go.” The king grit his teeth, biting back another remark.

The argument was over, then. Over because Eret decided it was. Fundy scoffed, he would gladly leave the traitor’s home. “Fine! Have fun in your stupid castle, alone!” 

He missed the way Eret hung his head, bringing his hands to his face as regret seeped into his bones. He missed the moment he removed his sunglasses, revealing white eyes shining with tears. He missed the monarch placing his crown on the arm of his throne, a sense of pointlessness washing over the scene.

What Fundy did not miss, however, was the figure in the distance as he exited the castle. Tall, broad-shouldered, and familiar, with two curled horns slicing the air, walking towards L’Manburg.

\--------------

Quackity thought he was dreaming. It was a putrid, disgusting cliche, but it was true. When he saw his best friend walk right through the middle of the road, a bag at his side and scowl on his face, he didn’t believe it was real. What gave it away were the silhouetted horns jutting out against the fading sun, one natural and textured, one white and smooth. A prosthetic, beautiful in the light. 

_ The strength of his arm _

_ My lover caught me off guard _

When the ram approached, he couldn’t help but stare. “You’re here.” The words left him in a whisper, and for a surreal second, he forgot they were standing on a dirt road in L’Manburg, forgot how dangerous meeting like this, forgot the weight missing from his back. Schlatt looked down at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Oh, how badly Quackity wanted to reach out and hug him.

But then again. “Oh, fucking Christ, Schlatt, what’re you doing?” Anxiety spiked through him. Being here, his friend wasn’t safe. Wilbur would be looking for him by now, and the madman had no mercy. There were both at risk if they stayed here.

“Finding you,” Schlatt said. His voice sounded different, tired. Quackity wanted to scream. God, his friend was an idiot. Curses ran through his mind, spat out like poison against his skull. The wind picked up as Schlatt took a step closer. He watched Quackity’s face like he was trying to commit it to memory, studying with the same looks he used to use on good nights, nights where they didn’t fight, when they would watch the stars. 

He should have known the stars weren’t what Schlatt was watching. “I’m sorry about your wings. Fuck, Alex, I’m sorry about everything.” It fell quiet in the air, Schlatt’s tone close to breaking. The sincerity of his words made Quackity’s mind fuzzy.

“It doesn’t matter—” it did matter—” you should have stayed with Phil, you were safe.” He  _ was _ safe. No matter how happy Quackity was to see him, his safety came first. He wondered if Schlatt felt the same way about him. With the risks he was taking, perhaps the answer was yes. 

Schlatt grimaced. “Wilbur’s only going to keep hurting people. I have to give him something he wants more than… or just, y’know, an ultimatum.” He looked away as he started to trail off, and Quackity knew there was something going unsaid. This was about more than ultimatums. Wilbur was a sadistic prick. He was also Schlatt’s longest friend, which meant he knew more about the ram than most. Than anyone. That was dangerous. 

“He has all the power, how’re you supposed to bargain?” Quackity asked. He might as well try to stop his friend. “This isn’t some fucking business deal, Schlatt. This is your life!”  _ Your life, your autonomy, your freedom. _ He wanted to go on, but the look his friend gave him was enough to make the words stick in his throat.

“You think I don’t know that? You know the shit he did when he had me locked up? I’m going back because you—this  _ country _ matters more than what he might do to me.” Neither of them missed the slip-up. It made Quackity’s head hurt and his back ache with phantom pains. No, he didn’t know what Wilbur had done in that week, but he had some good guesses. Whatever happened, it had changed Schlatt, broken something deep within him just the same as Quackity.

He couldn’t have it happen again. “How can you say that?” The words that came out were weak. Weaker than he expected. The fight that drove him had been stagnant for a long time, pushed down by Schlatt’s administration, then crushed by Wilbur. Perhaps he’d never get it back again. Quackity shuddered at the thought.

“I kinda deserve it, anyway.” He almost missed what Schlatt had said, but it caused anger to froth in his chest. 

“You don’t. No one deserves what he did to you. To us.” He tried to meet Schlatt’s eyes, but something else distracted the man. A thin and pale hand rummaged around in the bag at his side, fishing out an item Quackity couldn’t quite see. The silence shared between them was tense, eating away at the space between Quackity’s ribs and filling it with doubt. Schlatt sighed, looking down at the trinket he held with an unreadable expression.

_ How? Head of a rabbit _

_ How? Head of a rabbit _

“Here.” He dropped the item into Quackity’s hand, their palms touching as he forced his fingers to close around it. In feeling the shape, Quackity realised he was holding his rosary, small beads and delicate crucifix almost melding with his skin through the pressure of Schlatt’s hand around his. He inhaled, sharp and strained. Emotions bubbled in his lungs, but he couldn’t show them. Not now, not here. 

Schlatt pulled their joined hands up to rest between their chests, pressing his own ribcage closer so they could feel each other’s smallest movements. Both men could feel their vulnerable heartbeats, thrumming softly through the connection. If Quackity closed his eyes, he could pretend they were breathing in sync. Schlatt released his hand, leaving him with fingers that grasped around the rosary, looking for impossible warmth, the crucifix heavier than it should be. “To remind you of me.”

Quackity shook his head at the implications. “This isn’t goodbye.” His voice held a quiet pain, like something was screaming just under his throat, but couldn’t be heard. A version of him that hadn’t seen light since Wilbur dragged it out of him, clawing like a rabid animal. Something feral and rancid, rotting at the edges of his being for a long time.

That day in the cell, only some hours after the festival, he’d lost part of himself to that tyrant. And it was his own fault. His own fault for fighting back. His own fault for hurling insults. His own fault for begging for his life in exchange for his wings. Wilbur wanted to kill him. He should have taken his punishment like a man.

It wouldn’t see the world again. Not that screaming, desperate creature. The monster he became when a boot held him down and an axe tore his flesh. He would control it, like a beast-taming ringmaster, the anger and hatred and agony bowing to his will. Schlatt made him want to open the cage, to let the animal out, but he knew it would attack the wrong man. He wouldn’t let his emotions rule him. He couldn’t.

The eyes staring into Quackity’s own were ones he didn’t recognise. They swirled with fear, though fear for who, he didn’t know. Schlatt put a hand on his shoulder, sealing his own fate. Finality burned between them.

“Just be ready to run. You have to get outta here, Q.” His mouth moved to speak, but words failed him. Everything in his heart wanted him to stop the former president, to grab his arm and send him back to safety with Phil and Tubbo. But he was frozen to the spot, unable to move as Schlatt took his hand away, leaving his skin buzzing from the contact.

The men parted ways, Quackity left alone in the road. He didn’t turn to watch his friend walk away, instead letting warm tears run down his face and drop to the floor. A strange emptiness overcame him as those last words rang out in his head. 

Be ready to run? What did that mean? His mind raced with possibilities, none of them good. Quackity felt like a fool, a million things he could have said coming to mind now that Schlatt was gone. That might have been the last time he’d see him, and he’d wasted it. He’d wasted every moment.

_ For my prayer has always been love _

_ What did I do to deserve this? _

\--------------

At The White House, a collection of men sat in Wilbur’s office. The President himself sat at his desk, though he had stood several times in fits of passion, slamming his fists against the mahogany and shouting loud enough for the streets to hear. To his left were Dream and George, the former sitting without his mask, a confident smile on his face, the latter leaning back in his chair, a sombre tone contrasting his friend. Next to Wilbur and to his right sat Techno, a heavy shield held in his arm and eyes which carried tired flames scanning the room. In the corner, Tommy sat with his chin resting in his hands, silent and obedient as ever. 

“So you keep the borders secure, and I’ll keep the Badlands out of your hair. Sound like a deal?” Wilbur’s voice commanded the room, all attention on him. He and Dream had been talking for hours, the others there for show, about the details of Wilbur’s presidency. Dream had laughed when L’Manburg was destroyed, but even he knew it had to be rebuilt. His own portion of the land they shared couldn’t hope to house so many refugees. 

The deals they made were fair and fruitful for both parties, a far cry from the shaky deals Schlatt tried to coerce him into. Dream had been cautious to trust Wilbur, knowing that behind-the-scenes, things were darker than they seemed, but he agreed to talk, and now he was satisfied with his choices.

But not satisfied enough. “There is one thing.” He said it with a touch of hesitance, playing into Wilbur’s ego. The man liked to think everyone was scared of him, and who would Dream be if he didn’t flatter his enemies? Hell, he’d pretended to care about Schlatt’s ideas for long enough. This was a cake-walk.

Wilbur was more complicated than Schlatt, though. Where Schlatt’s scams were obvious trickery, Wilbur’s sweet-talk and mutual-gain deals were hidden bait. He’d had to think smart to avoid the pitfalls Wilbur so delicately laid out for him. 

Now it was his turn to deceive. “Oh? Do tell, Dream. We’re all friends here.” They were not all friends here, but it was nice to pretend. Dream took a sip of whiskey from the glass Wilbur had offered at the start of the meeting (he’d swapped them while the man wasn’t looking, of course) and smiled. It tasted like the same brand Schlatt used to tempt him with. Perfect.

“I assume you want search parties to find Schlatt and Phil.” He placed the empty glass down on Wilbur’s desk, next to a stack of papers. 

“And Tubbo,” George added, oblivious to the reasons no one wanted to mention the missing child. Tommy’s shoulders tensed, though Dream was the only one looking. The boy remained quiet. Wilbur didn’t even look in his direction. Oh, he  _ had _ been well-trained.

_ With blood on my sleeve _

_ Delilah, avenge my grief _

Dream sighed. “Yes, well, I can set up searches, but it would mean letting people out of the country.” It would mean a lot more than that. Dream wanted to find Schlatt, sure, but who he was really after was Phil. The man who mentored Technoblade. He could be useful, though Dream didn’t know how yet. It was nice to have options.

Wilbur hummed, tapping his hand against the side of his desk. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” 

“Wh—”

The door swung open with a bang, the exhausted figure of Fundy barreling through into the room. “Mr President, Sir!” His ears twitched with nerves, yellow eyes surveilling the meeting’s occupants. Wilbur practically growled in frustration. 

“Yes?” The exasperated father responded. His collected demeanour was slipping in the presence of his son, his hand twitching and leg bouncing under the desk, ready to launch him to his feet like a band snapping.

Fundy looked at the ground, one hand picking at the dead skin on the other. “Schlatt just walked into the country. He said he wants to see you. He’s, uh, waiting outside.” 

An unhinged smile split Wilbur’s face, eyes shining with humour and excitement. “Tell him to come in.” Fundy gave a brisk nod and hurried out of the door. This amused Dream, who breathed a laugh at the fox’s skittish nature, even around his own father. It was delightfully pathetic. Wilbur turned to the man, smile softening to something more calculated. “See why I don’t need search parties?”

Now Dream was curious. “How did you know?” On the other side of the room, he watched Techno’s expression shift to unease, the one-armed hybrid glaring daggers at them. Tommy’s eyes were cast downwards, tracing the patterns in the carpet. Dream couldn’t tell if it was from boredom or fear. He hoped it was fear. Fear was more fun.

“Coincidence. I didn’t think he’d come around so fast.” Wilbur gave his answer. The cockiness the man exuded was higher than usual, like he was getting exactly what he wanted handed to him on a silver platter. He was, Dream supposed. 

But what had compelled Schlatt to return? Why would he offer himself up, make himself so vulnerable like this, to the man who staged his public execution? It didn’t make sense to Dream. Of all the people, he never expected Schlatt to become some loyal dog to Wilbur’s campaign. That doesn’t mean he was complaining.

Wilbur clapped his hands, startling several people out of their thoughts. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a meeting to attend. Techno, Tommy, George, leave us.” 

Techno rolled his eyes, something Wilbur might have noticed, but refused to acknowledge. He wondered if it was easier to ignore things like that. Dream stood with his friend and the two brothers, but Wilbur waved his hand in a way that told him to sit back down. A light smirk still played on his face, confident and sinister. 

“Dream, you can stay,” he said. Something horrible swam in his eyes, causing Dream’s nerves to come alive. But at the same time, he knew the intended target wasn’t him, and that made him well with sadistic excitement. 

Wilbur laughed at the look on his face. “I want you to see this.”

_ How? God of Elijah _

_ How? God of Elijah _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas it aint gay to... well, okay, it is a little gay.
> 
> If you enjoyed don't forget to leave a comment and some kudos! I read and appreciate each one :)
> 
> Thanks for reading and have a great day xoxo


	8. Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deal is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there. It's only been a week! Are you proud of me????? 
> 
> Please give me validation please I will cry this chapter ruined me as a person. It's about 4000 words and I am in hell! The boys know how much of a struggle this chapter was haha. Also damn we are half way through now, huh?
> 
> Enjoy :)

_ Good times for a change  
_ _ See, the luck I’ve had can make a good man turn bad _

Three men occupied the President’s office, the evening sun warm on their skin as it filtered through the window. A dark grandfather clock stood as a fourth party, watching them with its shining face as it counted the seconds rolling by. 

Wilbur was the first to speak. “Welcome back.” He did nothing to hide the grin on his face. Schlatt, despite everything, gave a smile in return, his form dripping with sarcasm.

“Hey Will! I don’t like what you’ve done with the place,” he quipped, making a show of looking around at the office. It had changed since Wilbur came to power, with paint replacing wallpaper and new photographs sitting on shelves. The desk, however, looked much the same, stacked with papers and coffee cups and a bottle of whiskey half-full to the side. Schlatt rolled his eyes. Of course Wilbur stole his alcohol.

The President smirked, the sight of his enemy’s hands shaking at his sides betraying the fear behind his words. The prosthetic horn on his head made him seem regal, a gift from Phil, or someone else. Whoever the ram lived with for a week. Wilbur wanted to tear it away and break it into pieces.   


Schlatt’s eyes paused on a point in the room. He blinked once, then shook his head. “I’ve come to make a deal.” Without moving, Wilbur knew what the hybrid had seen. On one shelf behind him was the curled horn he had removed, polished, packed with preserving salts and hollowed until it could no longer resemble something alive. He’d spent great care keeping the thing looking nice for his display, next to it lying two sharp white teeth attached to a necklace chain. Soon, there would be a small collection of yellow feathers to join the prizes.

He gave Schlatt a cruel smile, indulging in the way his shoulders tensed and gaze drifted to the floor. “It’s nice to see you again.” His words rolled off of the desk between them, sticking to the corners like the smell of cigarette smoke constantly drifting through the room. Oh, it  _ was _ nice to see his old friend. 

“What do you want?” He asked, because everyone wants something. A bitterness rose at the back of his throat when Schlatt’s hands balled into fists, nails digging hard into his palms. Whatever the ram wanted, it was taking a lot for him to say. Or maybe it was being here, here with Wilbur, here with the man who hurt him. 

He’d never not enjoyed seeing himself in the terrified eyes of his enemies. It gave him some sort of brief respite from the hatred in his mind. Once, when he was young, he’d been sparring with Techno, and Phil had stopped paying attention to him, only cheering on the older of the two occasionally while flicking through a book. The things Wilbur felt weren’t anger, or sadness, but something deeper, something horrible and animal. He saw red, and suddenly he’d kicked Techno in the throat. There were screams and coughs, but all Wilbur wanted to do was hurt something, and he kept going until Phil pulled him away. The fear from both his brother and his father was palpable. It was a good day.

Now, something new stirred in his chest, underneath the satisfaction of seeing the effects of what little damage he’d done taking hold. Not regret, not quite, but not good. Like his brain was catching up with him. 

_ So please, please, please  
_ _ Let me, let me, let me  
_ _ Let me get what I want this time _

A silent figure to the side of the room made himself known, standing with little grace and stepping over to the desk. Wilbur had almost forgotten Dream was there, jumping in his seat at the movement. Just as well, the thoughts were getting dark again. He raised an accusatory eyebrow at him when he grabbed the whiskey bottle and a glass before returning to his seat. The man shrugged, his mask covering half of his face, annoying in the way it obscured his emotions from view but comforting in its lack of judgement. He poured himself a drink, quiet and content in watching the show.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticked through the seconds before Schlatt spoke. “Freedom of movement in and out of the country for every citizen.” Rehearsed. Since when did the businessman need to be so careful with words? Wilbur mulled the idea over in his brain, almost ignoring the request in favour of analysing its delivery. He supposed the man had been president for a year. Wording mattered. 

It mattered more than anything, now. Freedom of movement, eh? Wilbur wasn’t stupid. He knew Schlatt wanted the new law in place so his friends could run away. It was he who locked down the country in the first place, tightening borders before the festival to limit the chance of sabotage and assassination. A temporary law. And it worked so well… 

What do a few lost citizens matter? “I see.” Wilbur tapped the desk. “In exchange for?” There were always two sides to a deal. He wasn’t about to leave with the worse half. Schlatt huffed.

“Me.” Simple. Bold. Tempting. Wilbur laughed. He couldn’t be serious. In the room's corner, Dream choked on his drink. Schlatt sneered at him, and Wilbur wondered if he was more annoyed by the humiliation or the wasted alcohol. 

He stood from his desk, causing Schlatt to take a cautious step back. The sweet fear had returned to him, it seemed, and Wilbur felt better about it than ever. He pushed back his chair and walked around the front of the desk, taking calculated steps towards his prize—his catch—a strangled hunger brewing deep down. He didn’t have to agree to the deal in words, he could just grab Schlatt and be done with it. How perfect. 

Dream seemed to have other ideas. “I’ll have to step in.” His hand gripped Wilbur’s shoulder, once again reminding him they weren’t alone. The President cursed. “If you give everyone living here the choice to leave, my country will be flooded with refugees. I don’t want that. Our deals… they will become obsolete.” He had been bartering with the idea of lying to Schlatt and not upholding his side of the deal, but Dream’s presence and objection made that unviable. Wilbur sighed, holding back his frustration.

“What if I give them reparations for staying?” The idea slipped out with casual irritation. He leant back on his desk with his hands supporting his weight. At least Schlatt still looked scared, the reality of martyrdom making itself known.

With a wave of his hand, Dream accepted Wilbur’s idea, sitting back down. “As long as my land doesn’t get overwhelmed, you can do what you want.” If Wilbur could see his face, he’d be delighted to know that the man held an uncomfortable yet morbidly interested expression. He poured himself another whiskey, the drink not seeming to phase him. Could Dream get drunk?

“Deal,” Wilbur said, walking back to his desk. Schlatt physically relaxed as he sat back down in his plush chair, grabbing a blank piece of paper and scrawling the new orders at the top before signing it. Laws didn’t need approval in this cabinet.

Wilbur passed to note to Dream, who stood with his mask covering his face fully. “Make the announcement.” The president took a moment to glance between the two men, one standing tall and confident, the other cowering under his gaze. He smiled. “Call a meeting at the podium.”

\----------------

A fox and a duck ran through the centre of town, pushing through crowds of confused and celebratory citizens until a familiar wooden hut was in sight. No smoke came from the chimney, but a warmly lit window told them someone was inside. 

“Niki!” Fundy called as they reached the door. Quackity stood by his side, an unreadable expression on his face. Inside, a few thuds could be heard, then the door swung open, revealing a frazzled woman with fading pink hair. She pulled Fundy into a brief embrace, and Quackity mused it looked like the broken man was being put back together before his eyes. 

After the hug, Niki turned to Quackity. “Did you see?” She was asking about Dream’s announcement, but something else hid underneath the words. Something curious and careful, gentle and concerned. It wasn’t patronising, but the question was there. The rosary sitting around Quackity’s neck gave her an answer.   
  
“Yeah, yeah, we have to get outta here.” The topic moved along, and Niki nodded, a hint of sadness on her face that hadn’t left since the festival. If Quackity thought about it, he could say with confidence that he hadn’t seen her happy since the election. But there were no words for the guilt that made him feel.

Niki turned and walked down the hallway of her small house, disappearing into a room off to the right. She shouted something about gathering a few supplies before they left, and Quackity understood not to follow. Instead, he and Fundy waited at the door.

The fox hybrid played with his thumbs. “I’m coming too.” A question posed as a fact. Quackity scrunched up his face at the thought. Fundy may be younger, but he was still Wilbur’s son. The chances he was a spy were higher than anything. Or he could follow in his father’s footsteps. One wrong move and he and Niki would be dead.

“But…” Quackity trailed off. Between the way Fundy’s hands shook and how his head was always down, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Y’know what? Never mind.” He slapped his hand against Fundy’s shoulder. Who was he to judge Wilbur’s son, when he himself had been Schlatt’s vice president? They were all at fault in one way or another.

Besides, didn’t Niki trust him? The girl’s judgement was always sound. And if Fundy did anything suspicious, Quackity knew he could convince his friend to ditch the guy. Did they need to perform communicator checks? 

They’d come back to it later, perhaps. Niki had returned, equipped with a bundle at her side and a thick coat over her shoulders. It reached down to her ankles and made Quackity wish he invested in warmer clothes. Oh well.

“Where do we go?” She asked. Her voice had a fragile yet determined quality to it. Something to be admired, sensitivity without weakness. He guessed Niki had always been strong. She must have had to be, with everything that had happened. His own fault, or Wilbur’s. 

Ah, that’s why he recognised the coat. “Away. Anywhere, I don’t care.” The restless anxiety which had been building all day was starting to boil over. They had to get out of this place, fast. But he didn’t know where to start. 

Silence came over the three, all debating where to go within their heads. The only place Quackity could think of was Dream’s land, but he doubted he’d be welcome there. Then there were the forests. No way. They’d die in a week. So… what about somewhere far away, where no one could find them? He didn’t know. 

The longer the quiet went on, the more depressing it became. Niki looked like she wanted to say something a few times, but stopped herself with a subtle shake of her head. It seemed kind of hopeless, if Quackity was being honest. Hopeless and stupid, like what his best friend had done was for nothing.

That was until Fundy snapped his fingers, ears twitching at an idea. The others turned to him, expectant faces watching his eyes light up, and he grinned. “I might know a place.”

\----------------

“Do you realise what you’ve done?” Wilbur asked. His tone sharp with anger. Schlatt stood before him with no expression. ‘What he’d done’ still had to process. It was going to take a while.

Still, he nodded, eager to show his lack of regret. “I care about m—your people. They’re starving in the streets.” Why Wilbur’s eyes held fury was a mystery. He got exactly what he wanted from Schlatt, without having to give up power. Maybe he’d lose some of his citizens, but with the reparations in place, he’d keep many more. 

“It’s not just that, is it?” Wilbur asked. He picked up a stack of papers and tapped them against his desk, straightening them out. “You wouldn’t give yourself away just for common citizens. I don’t think you’d even do it for your friends.” The man stood again, making his way over to Schlatt with purpose.

_ Haven’t had a dream in a long time  
_ _ See, the life I’ve had can make a good man bad _

The movement sparked nerves in Schlatt’s stomach. “Well, you’re wrong.” He walked backwards as Wilbur approached, not allowing him to come closer than a few feet. His heart beat faster in his chest, breaths shaking as the anxiety and fear grew.

Wilbur looked to the side, faux-concern dancing across his features in a perfect mask. “I control you. I  _ own _ you. And for what?”

“You can’t own people. I’m not an object. I’m not your pet.” Schlatt said, the need to defend himself building up like limescale. His hunter came closer still, one of the few people who could look down at the hybrid without some kind of platforms or hells on their feet. He hated it, feeling small. Wilbur ate it up.

“And yet you are an animal.” The words were spat with surprising venom. Schlatt realised too late that Wilbur had backed him into the wall. The taller man’s arm reached out to push him against it. 

Something about it made Schlatt flinch away. “You’re a sadistic fuck. The deal’s over if this is some kinda gay kink shit.” He would do a lot of things for his friends, but that wasn’t one of them. And didn’t Wilbur have an ex-wife or something? It didn’t matter. The man in front of him rolled his eyes.

“Oh, this isn’t about that. You know I don’t want that. I have no such interest in you,” he said, sending a wave of relief through Schlatt’s body. Wilbur seemed embarrassed, which was fun. It felt nice to have a little control.

He scoffed. “Wouldn’t put it past you.” He egged his captor on. For a second, he could forget the situation and just fall into something familiar. Something practised and normal, repeated a thousand times in dozens of worlds. Whether chased by water, or fire, or exploding skies, wouldn’t this always be the same? Nice. Simple jokes between friends.

“No, no!” Until reality reared its ugly head. Wilbur’s eyes darkened. “There’s just something so… cathartic about it. Seeing you so scared, all at my mercy, begging for the pain to stop.” He ran his hand across Schlatt’s jawline, warm breath dancing along the skin. “Knowing I’m the one who gets to decide. I hold your life in my hands, and it’s  _ beautiful _ .” The words turned to whispers, like the very idea was something holy to behold. The madness ran deep in Wilbur’s eyes, and within them, Schlatt saw himself reflected as his enemy wanted, weak and bleeding, evoking God as cruel hands tangled in his hair. Why did he want that?

A thumb rested right beneath his right eye, pulling at the skin with the weight of it. Wilbur smiled. “I make you so beautiful.” 

The look he gave Schlatt reminded him of Saints he saw drawn in the books and tapestries of his childhood church. Their eyes were always wild with the fire of retribution, of judgement. Wilbur regarded him with a divinity unknown to any god, the purest form of blasphemy fluttering between the executioner and the martyr like the ash of a burning bible.

“It’s worth it for the people to be free,” Schlatt said, keeping his head high. He may have given over his freedom, but he’d fight for his dignity. If Wilbur wanted to dehumanise him, and cut him, and leave wounds deeper than the flesh, he could, but Schlatt would be damned if he didn’t criticise and sneer in reprisal. Above all else, he was a stubborn and bitter ram.

As a young boy, the pastor hated him for his hybrid nature. A sign of the devil, his curled and animalistic horns, a curse that never went away. There would be Sundays, the number countless, where he would kneel prostrate at the altar and pray for forgiveness as the holy man ran off scriptures about saving the damned.

The church-goers would often pray for his salvation, sometimes for his merciful death, though they were the same thing. Days were spent placing holy water at his head and chanting words he didn’t understand into his ears. His adoptive parents never stopped the practice.

It was when they brought out crosses and knives that he had to run. They held him down in their sanctimonious virtue, head forced close to fire as sharp blades hovered above his horns. He had cried for them to stop, kicking against women and men he once trusted. The Saints looked down at him, always the same, their righteous fury scorching his very being, a feeling he’d never forget.

There were still scars at his shoulders from the rope they used to bind him to the altar. He made a choice that day, visiting the church with guilt eating up his body and asking them to help him, to save him, in the name of God, in a more permanent form. When the gentle scriptures became screamed veneration, and the shine of the blade came close to his head, he realised he’d made a mistake. 

The world was a blur when he escaped torture and death, fleeing the village at sixteen and never returning since. Churches made him uncomfortable for a long time after that, though he kept his faith, and he became more protective and guilty of his horns as the years went by.

It took a long time to become proud of them.

Wilbur stared at him with the same importance the church-goers did, safe in his own consecrated justification. What he was doing—what he was going to do—he could defend it in the same way and with the same verses. He was a demon for different reasons, now.

At some point, they had started walking. Out of the office and into the hall, down sets of stairs and into familiar parts of The White House. Wilbur held Schlatt’s arm with a vice-like grip, as if letting go would give the ram a reason to run away. Maybe it was better if they both pretended that was the case. 

They reached the cell, and a hand curled in Schlatt’s hair. “Who needs citizens? They’re ants to me.” Concerning, if Schlatt hadn’t been so distracted. The warmth at his head made him want to retch, but his traitorous body shivered at the touch, leaning into it with little self-restraint. Just the smallest affections made him want to weep, and Wilbur knew it. The man reached around him to unlock the cell door, breath close again as Schlatt all but forced himself against the hand buried deep into the back of his neck. In the action itself, Wilbur held ultimate control. So much for fighting back.

The cell door opened, filtering light into the familiar grey room. Schlatt frowned at the chains still hanging from the wall, but Wilbur led him to the bed in the corner. Its sheets had been changed since his last stay, a pristine white once again, and the bloodstains on the floor had been cleaned the best they could be.

Schlatt sat on the bed, hands pulling at the silk sheets below him. He paled, remembering what happened last time he was here, a faint sting pulsing where he was stabbed, but Wilbur didn’t choose to stand over him. Instead, he sat too, so close that their legs brushed together and Schlatt could feel the taller’s shoulder digging into his own. 

He turned to look at the man, only to find Wilbur had closed his eyes. His expression showed something of pain, regret, perhaps anger, emotions he hadn’t expected from the confident sadist. Had he done something wrong? Hadn’t he got what he wanted?

Then his eyes snapped open, and the moment had gone. “You’re the only one that matters, my dove.” Schlatt stayed quiet at the confession. How was he supposed to feel? The man had already admitted to finding solace in the pain he caused, Schlatt knew it would come soon, but that nickname… pet name, so gentle, full of care. Oh, Christ, he was screwed.

This, the thing he’d missed, and yearned for in the time he had been free. The one person who could never let him go. The one person who would keep needing him. The one person who held him in his darkest hour and told him things would be okay. Wilbur was all he could rely on. Always there. And if he had to bear torture to get sweet comfort, he would.

No, other people cared about him. Surely. This wasn’t healthy, laying his life out for the hope of fleeting contact. Hours, days of pain for a simple embrace? But it was more than that. Quackity wouldn’t ask this of him, would he? Phil never asked for anything, Tubbo and Fundy at least appreciated his administration. But he was doing this for them. He had no choice. 

Pale arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a hug. Schlatt froze, fear causing his heart to beat hard in his chest. He expected a knife the slide into him, but all he got was Wilbur’s head resting at his shoulder, hands digging into his back and bringing him closer as they both shifted to be more comfortable in each other’s arms.

“Poor thing. You must be so scared.” The whispered comfort broke him. Schlatt felt warm tears run down his face, accompanied by a quiet sob. His body trembled against his friend’s (friend, enemy, what was the difference?) and he grasped at his sweater for something to ground himself with. Faded yellow fell apart under his hold. 

He felt Wilbur smile into his shoulder blade. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” He muttered the reassurances again and again as Schlatt continued to cry. The weight of what he’d done fell heavy on his shoulders, Wilbur’s hand petting his hair, a cruel reminder of the life he gave away, and the autonomy he may never see again. His breath caught in his throat at the thought of eternity like this. The rest of his life as something to cut and bleed like his cell was a slaughterhouse. The endless reviving and repeated torture would make him weaker until he couldn’t dream of escape. Then what? Then what hope was there?

A fetal sickness in his chest bloomed, blistering inside like burning skin. Schlatt reminded himself of why he did this. Quackity’s worried eyes were burned into his mind, that moment passing over the rosary forever engraved through his bones. As long as his friend—his partner—was safe. He would go through hell.

And wasn’t hell always there for him, anyway? There were other reasons he came here, other reasons he didn’t set a better deal with Wilbur, other reasons the fight he had moments prior had disappeared. Those reasons had been hand-picked from the darkest corners of his mind, taken and manipulated until some disgusting part of him  _ wanted  _ this fate. Some starved, instinctual part. It wanted this.

As if reading his mind, Wilbur moved away from the embrace, not bothering to hide his smug expression when Schlatt tried to pull him back. Instead, he grabbed the front of Schlatt’s shirt and brought his mouth to the hybrid’s ear. Dread spiked in Schlatt’s heart, the terror of being so close to his enemy feeling real only now.

He spoke in a tone boiling with glee. “I knew it.”

__ So, for once in my life, let me get what I want  
_ Lord knows it would be the first time  
_ __ Lord knows it would be the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a complicated relationship with religion what are you talking about?????
> 
> Anyway it's not gay to wonder if the homie is gay.
> 
> Uhhhhh leave comment yes thank you have a good day :)


	9. Two-Headed Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs* Hey! Uhhhhhh. I have nothing to say for myself. Updates may be slower in the coming weeks as I have a lot on my plate. Also I made a new fic whoops. Go check it out if you want it's certainly... something. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy this update. Leave me a comment for moral support. Uh. Yeah.
> 
> TW in this chapter for specific and detailed references to Catholic and otherwise religious elements. More than normal.

_ Two-headed boy  
_ _ All floating in glass _

How long had it been since Wilbur left him here? Days? Weeks? Schlatt didn't know. The cell had no windows, and no clock, so it was impossible to tell. The only way to know time had passed was the hunger-pains in his stomach and the lightheadedness of dehydration.

For the first days (or what he thought were days) he didn't sleep, afraid of what Wilbur might do while he couldn't fight back. The question of if he would fight back anyway haunted his thoughts and confused his head. But soon his body betrayed him, and he woke to find food and water sitting next to the bed, enough to keep him from dying of thirst or hunger. How considerate. 

That's how it had been for a while, now. He woke up, ate something, stared at nothing for hours, stretched, paced his cell, and passed out. Some days he would exercise until he collapsed, just to prove he could. He had to keep his body strong, for now, at least until something happened. 

Some days he'd shout for Wilbur to come back. Those were the bad days.

No one ever visited. He tried pretending he was asleep, sometimes, to see if someone would bring his food. But they never came unless he was asleep for real. Even then, they'd miss days. 

He'd made a habit of kicking things. His bed, the wall, the door. His feet hurt afterwards, but he still did it. Why he did it was another question. Boredom, maybe. The hope he got hurt and Wilbur would have to come to fix him. A replacement for the abuse the man himself so skillfully delivered, a painful attempt to fill the gap of his absence. The reason didn't matter.

Some days he received new clothes. Always a suit, or at least a shirt and dress pants. It was cruel and ironic, but he'd rather that than anything else, even if he omitted the tie. New shoes replaced the old, falling apart from all the kicking, and Schlatt felt a little proud of the annoyance it must cause, Wilbur's scowl coming to mind whenever a fresh pair of polished black shoes showed up at the foot of the bed.

That's what occupied his thoughts a lot these days. Wilbur. His face, his eyes, his hands. A part of it was fear, the sweet but unhinged smile of the man who hurt him, the boots which broke his ribs, the hands carrying a knife. The other, weaker part of him was desperate. Just to see another person, just to feel his embrace, to hear his voice. 

Solitary confinement. That's what it was. Wilbur knew him far too well. And he was stronger than most, used to being alone for a long time, but everyone had a limit. Yesterday (the passage of time meant nothing) Schlatt screamed and begged for Wilbur to come back, to hold him, to hurt him, whatever he wanted, as long as he gave his company. Hell, he'd stop kicking stuff if he had someone to talk to. But nothing came. No response. And he was left to fall asleep and wait once again.

_ The sun it has passed  
_ _ Now it’s blacker than black _

Now, he was partaking in one of his favourite pastimes. Sitting and staring at the wall. It wasn't an interesting wall, made up of large stone bricks which sometimes crumbled at the edges, but he made do. He could see every dent and imperfection in each brick when he closed his eyes, hours of studying leaving the pattern etched into his mind. 

If he let his mind blur and flutter in and out of focus, he could pretend the cell was a church. An old church from long ago with familiar colours and familiar cold. The stone walls towered up and up as columns, strong in their devotion, parting at the vault with intricate and beautiful capitals. 

He sat within the pews, aisles ahead and behind. The seats were always uncomfortable, making his back hurt after every service, despite the plush cushions lining the rows. The things he endured because it felt just. Because people told him there was no faith without pain.

Then the confessional. Wooden box, two doors, the sign of the cross. He never thought he’d need to use it again. The last time he had been a pitiful, sobbing boy, a runaway, pleading forgiveness for daring to live. Daring to be happy as such a wretched thing. There were other men there waiting, some older, a few younger, who looked at him with disgust as he left. He didn’t blame them; they were there for a reason, too. 

He didn’t learn their names, but he remembered their faces. Each little town had them, the young men and women with their features crossed with guilt. He always thought about what their sins may be, and gathered from the few he talked to that they weren’t often to blame. It was the shame which kept them coming back. The shame of who they were or what they’d done. The shame of things they couldn’t control. 

And Schlatt… he never saw it as their fault. You don’t choose to sin, not at that age. Not with that guilt. The only ones who chose to sin were the people like him. The untrustworthy, the disloyal, the covetous. Money had always been his vice, but these people, on the whole, were guilty of nothing.

Yet he couldn’t see why he was the same. The devil in him never existed, but the shame within it did. Those village folk saw him as a creature, as the sharp silhouette of evil, as an animal or unnatural or unholy. Who was he to argue? 

And wasn’t this Hell? Trapped in stone, Wilbur his perpetual torture? But first, as if this wasn’t enough of a putrid and violent thing, he would be broken by loneliness, cracked against the grindstone until he split and gave in. Then the vassal of his hubris would swoop in to save him, feathers scattered across the ground like ash as the cycle of pain continued. This was it. All he had now was his ruined and decaying faith.

Confession began with prayer, and the Sign of the Cross. “ Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words rolled out of him, practised and free in muttered repetition. “It has been… a while since my last confession.” He couldn’t remember the last time he confessed. Years, maybe a decade. To be honest, he didn’t know why he was confessing now, with no one to forgive him and no faith to impute. But he did it all the same.

_ I can hear as you tap on your jar  
_ _ And I am listening to hear where you are  
_ _ I am listening to hear where you are _

“Greed is a sin, isn’t it?” He asked the empty room. No one replied, but if he closed his eyes and used his imagination, he could pretend he was in a box, with a simple divider and someone to listen and absolve him at the end. That would be nice.

The saccharine smell of wood and dust pushed him to keep talking. “Matthew nineteen twenty-four, ‘ and again I say unto you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.’” He choked a bitter laugh. “Isn’t that what you said?” With the conviction of someone screaming to the heavens, he whispered an apology for the audacity. Now wasn’t the time.

A strange anxiety crept up his shoulders, then. The fear of someone overhearing these words. But, he reasoned, someone would always listen, and it seemed better to say it aloud than to keep everything in his head. Still, the thought of Wilbur standing outside the metal door, listening to the private and spiritual moment with a wicked smirk on his face spurred Schlatt to lower his voice. 

“It’s a mortal sin, to hoard wealth, or plan to condemn someone to death, or to wish it upon your parents, or… or…” He trailed off, the words confused and aimless without someone to guide him. It had been so long. He forgot if the confessions came first all at once, or if they were meant to be said one at a time, with specific accounts and numbers of times. That didn’t count venial sins, either, of which he had committed many. Too many to remember.

The picture of Wilbur stabbing him flashed through his head. Every word the man had spoken brought down the wall of his religion. He had forced him to face death, and to assess his true belief within it, and when he found nothing there, something shifted in him. It was the same shift he felt when the ram from his childhood couldn’t be saved, and he blamed God. It was the same shift when Wilbur removed his horn, and he thought the man an angel.

To denounce God, to assign that holy value to a mortal, to call a human man your god, they were some of the worst sins of all. But this… this torture? He opened his eyes, and he was back in the cell, sitting on his bed with grey walls holding him in. Like Jonah in the belly of the whale. And he was as much of a coward.

He slammed his fist against the mattress. “Tell me, is this not repent enough? I have nothing! I have nothing, and you continue to fucking torture me!” This time, he screamed, an anger burning through him. It didn’t matter who heard. Shit, he hoped someone heard him. Heard his battle with faith itself. How could his God forsake him like this, leaving him to his enemy, the deranged sadist? Even a sinner doesn’t go to Hell until they die. 

Quackity’s words ran through him:  _ ‘no one deserves what he did to you’ _ . He appreciated the sentiment. There was a time he would have disagreed, told the man that he chose to keep living, and this alone was enough to warrant his crucifixion, but he’d moved on, somewhat, from those days.

_ Two-headed boy  
_ _ Put on Sunday shoes _

His worldview had shifted when he met Phil. After so many years of running and praying and confessing, he met someone like him. A hybrid. He’d seen them before, dead in alleyways or in the courtyards of prisons, but it took a lot of travelling to find a place where that kind of thing was unheard of. Barbaric is what Phil called it.

They fought side-by-side, in a far-off land of strange creatures and towers and floating mansions. And Schlatt, for the first time in a long time, didn’t hate himself. Phil wasn’t like a father, more like a friend, but their bond may as well have been familial. The owl would fly high above the ground, shouting encouragements to his companion as they fought off everything the world threw at them. And it was fun.

After their time in that place was over, Phil took Schlatt to meet his sons. One hybrid (Techno, a boar, they would go on the win tournaments together) and two humans. Adopted, with Techno being the oldest and Tommy the youngest. The middle, Wilbur, was Schlatt’s age, around twenty-four, but had a son, a fox named Fundy. 

If he could go back and never meet that family… 

How old was Wilbur, now? Fundy was coming up for eighteen, and he was seven when Wilbur first met Schlatt. Thirty-four? Schlatt shuddered at the realisation that they were in their thirties. They spent so much time doing those little challenges, and visiting unknown places together, and bonding, to end up like this. 

He groaned, running his hands through his hair. The cold porcelain of his prosthetic brushed against his fingers. “Who am I even talking to?” Despite everything, he was alone. He had been alone for however long. Alone and angry. Angry in the way that boils deep in your gut, frustration threatening to spill over as tears, with no fight left behind the emotion. The kind of anger that makes you brittle. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t strong. I know I’m supposed to be strong.” His adoptive father’s disappointed face came to mind, looking down on him when he’d asked if they might allow him to learn the cello at school. Strength was something the family cared about. They weren’t cruel about it, just as they weren’t cruel about church, or farm work, but they were stern. His father forbade music lessons. He didn’t ask again.

Fundy knew how to play piano, and so did Tubbo. No one ever said they were weak, at least not for that. Schlatt wished he learnt something, music or writing or art. Maybe then he could ask Wilbur to bring him supplies and he wouldn’t be so bored and he’d be okay and he wouldn’t need people to stop him from going mad.

Then, if he ever got out, he and Tubbo and Fundy could play music together. They’d be a band, or whatever, and no one would think about Wilbur and his music, because they would create something new. Tommy would be there, and Phil, and they’d be happy. And Quackity would hold him, asking nothing in return. Wilbur would be a distant memory, he’d be the one all alone, and everything would be okay.

That would be nice. 

\--------------

Techno stood in Tommy’s room, leaning on the desk as his little brother sifted through his closet. He was looking for his sword, as Techno had asked to borrow it for something important. The low, orange lamplight made this a painful task, each disorganised corner of the room becoming a dark, impossible cave of stuff. Techno didn’t think it would take this long. At least he had things to say.

He cleared his throat, making the boy stop and stare. “We need to talk.” Tommy nodded once, then went back to searching. Under Schlatt’s administration, this had been Tubbo’s room, though the boy likely kept it in much better condition. Tommy didn’t know this. He grabbed something and pulled, revealing a decent sword of shining metal. The grin he wore when he passed it over made Techno stifle a laugh.

_ And dance round the room to accordion keys  
_ _ With the needle that sings in your heart _

“Wilbur’s out of control,” he said. No time for celebration, now. He weighed the sword in his hand, meant for two but built for someone weaker, so it worked well enough as a single-handed weapon. He hummed.

Tommy flailed his arms around, the beginnings of words bubbling at the tip of his tongue as he rushed around his room, pointing at random objects. Techno wished, not for the first time today, that he had more power. Not to hurt the kid, but to make him stand still for half a second.

“Slow down. What are you saying?” He asked, scrunching up his face in annoyance. Tommy pointed between the two of them, then to the framed photo of Wilbur at his desk. He continued the motion a few times before looking at Techno with inquisitive eyes. 

He wished the kid would just speak to him. “That’s not your brother. Not my brother. Not Phil’s son. He hurt you, he took my arm, he’s been ruining lives.” Tommy gave him a look of confusion, his eyes flicking between Techno’s arm and his own hands, shaking under his gaze. Ah, had he not known? 

The once energetic child slumped onto his bed, staring at the floor. He looked as though he wanted to speak, but he wrapped his hand around his mouth before he could. Instead, he just shook, shoulders trembling and eyes wide, processing what Techno had just said. What the hell had Wilbur told him? That he lost his arm in the explosions? That someone else did this to him? His anger frothed under his skin, threatening to spill out and make the world go red. 

No. Not here. Not in front of Tommy. The kid needed comfort, and Techno was historically shit at comfort. He walked over to the bed, sitting next to his brother with his hand at his side messing with the sheets. His feet tapped against the floor, and he didn’t look at Tommy when he heard him cry. 

The silence made him feel sick, like he was fucking everything up and making it all worse. He didn’t know how to be there for the boy. Their bond had never been strong, Techno rarely felt like a brother to his siblings, but it still hurt to see the youngest sad. Or, angry? Whatever emotion it was. Damn his years alone, farming potatoes day and night and not allowing visitors. He’d been awkward before then, but he liked to blame it.

Maybe it was best to leave the kid alone. Techno made a move to stand, but a tiny hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back down. He turned, meeting Tommy’s eyes. Distressed, that’s the emotion. Distressed and scared. Techno sighed. He couldn’t leave him like this.

Tommy moved closer to him, resting his head on Techno’s shoulder. He left space between them as if his arm was still there, and the actions he took were careful—hesitant. Techno wasn’t an idiot, he knew trauma when he saw it. Maybe he’d have more than a word with Wilbur.

“Listen. I’m going to fight Dream.” Tommy looked down to the space where his arm should be and raised an eyebrow. “I know, I know. But I can beat him, I promise. Then we can fix things.” It was a cautious promise at best, but he wasn’t the Blood God for nothing. Dream had encouraged Wilbur, egged him on, made deals with him and basked in the sadistic plans of the middle brother. He would pay.

Now came the part Techno was unsure about. There were still people to save, lives to make better, and wrongs to right. Fighting Dream would be a start, but Techno knew no one in their family had the willpower to stop Wilbur. His authority would have to be dismantled from the inside, and if that meant helping people he’d rather not help, then so be it. 

“I need you to do something when the time comes. Okay?” Techno lifted his brother from his shoulder and look him in the eye again. The boy nodded once, not even asking what it was he needed to do. Oh. Well, at least no one could overhear the plan.

They would have to work on that unquestioning loyalty when they got out of here. Both of them had a lot to fix. 

And that was it. Techno walked to the door, placing his hand on the handle before turning back to his little brother. “I’ll talk to you later.” He gave a weak smile. Some kind of emotion bubbled in his chest. “Don’t run your mouth, Toms. I know what you’re like.”

_ Catching signals that sound in the dark  
_ _ Catching signals that sound in the dark _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not gay to... actually this chapter was rather tame compared to the others.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and have a great day!


	10. Standing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is a father, without his sons?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA  
> I'm so stressed right now.   
> But I got the chapter out so you can thank me later.  
> Updates may be infrequent because of life stuff and school stuff, so sorry if that is the case!  
> For now, enjoy this chapter and leave a nice comment cause I need it right now man.  
> Anyways.
> 
> TW implied self-harm and suicide attempt, general misunderstandings of mental health conditions

_ You’re not ready for the world outside  
_ _ You keep pretending but you just can’t hide  
_ _ I know I said that I’d be standing by your side  
_ _ But I…  _

He’d been folding blankets in the living room when Tubbo approached him. “Phil?” The man in question turned to the source of the voice, noting the boy’s careful expression and the way he shifted from one foot to the other. He stopped his task to give him his full attention.

“What’s up, mate?” Tubbo mirrored his offer of a gentle smile, then dropped into something more serious. Tubbo looked at his hands and pulled at the skin around one of his thumbs, a section of it peeling back and making him wince. Phil gave him a pointed look. 

He dropped his hands to his sides. “Do you think Schlatt is a bad person?” The words left him in a whisper, and Phil felt himself well up with emotion. He wanted to hug the boy and tell him everything would be okay, but he knew he had an aversion to touch, and that would make things worse. Still, seeing him so nervous to speak about such topics ignited a paternal instinct in Phil that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Before he could come up with an answer, Tubbo spoke again. “Well, I think he was gonna kill me, at the festival, for being a traitor. I don’t know if he knew how many lives I had left.” He fumbled over his words, trying to pick out things that made sense. Phil was patient, as always, as Tubbo struggled to express his thoughts. “But then, at the same time, he did good things for the country. He cared. And now, uh, who knows what he’s going through.” Who knows indeed. Phil had a pretty good idea. 

Having known Schlatt for a long time, Phil could say a lot of things about the man. He had a harsh upbringing, an outcast in his early years, from what he had told him. There was a period where he would cower at the symbol of the cross and beg forgiveness every night, though those days had passed, and a lot of shit held him down emotionally. But he wasn’t an angel. His actions, even before Manburg, bordered on cruel. 

Phil frowned. His opinion on the matter was irrelevant, wasn’t it? “People aren’t always good or bad. Some are complicated.” He wasn’t sure if he should get into grey morality and the ethics of forgiveness right now. 

A ruthless businessman, some called Schlatt. Phil heard them talking in the streets back when he used to visit the city. He exploited people’s trust, creating fake currencies and building scams and sacrificing friendship for profit. It came from a place of complexity, not evil, he believed. It came from self-hatred and guilt and the strange conflict between wanting to push people away to protect them and wanting them close to protect yourself. 

However, it doesn’t matter how good your excuse is, hurting others isn’t a good thing to do. Phil often thought Schlatt would be better off apologising to the ones he hurt and not expecting to be forgiven. 

It was horrible how wrong things went before he could get the chance. 

Tubbo hugged himself and turned his head to the side. Did he want to say something else? Phil tried to soften his body language, and Tubbo stared at the ground. “Do you think Wilbur is a bad person?” There it was. 

Phil pinched the bridge of his nose, a deep sigh leaving his chest. In all honesty, he didn’t know how to answer that. He looked down at Tubbo, and he guessed his expression was enough because the boy wouldn’t meet his eyes. An uncomfortable air surrounded them both. Then Tubbo nodded once, and left.

They’d have to talk about this eventually, but right now Phil would rather sit on his own and think. He had a lot to think about, after all.

Maybe if he’d been a better father, none of this would have happened. There were warning signs, always coming back to him, and hindsight is a bastard. The bad days, when Wilbur would lock himself in his room and scream about how pointless life was, about how he was a god, so far above the common creature of man. The moments where Phil was sure he had the same problem as Techno, violent voices telling him what to do, but he never showed the same regret as his eldest son. He revelled in the pain he caused when he lashed out and hated himself for it at the same time. Was the self-loathing performative?

_ Your path’s unbeaten, and it’s all uphill  
_ _ And you can meet it, but you never will  
_ _ And I’m the reason that you’re standing still  
_ _ But I…  _

He could have made Wilbur see someone. Someone who would help. A therapist or a doctor or something. He could have dealt with this. Why did he have to ignore it? Why did he tell himself to disregard the teenage rebellion? Why didn’t he listen to his son when he was in pain?

Because he was a coward and an unfit parent. He left the boys when they became too much. When Wilbur was an adult (with a son, though he hadn’t told him yet) and Tommy had just been born, found in a dumpster by a curious Techno one snowy night. He left to explore the world, satisfy his own selfish wants and find new, beautiful things. And not just things, people, too. So many amazing people. 

Schlatt was one of them. Phil had been hacking away at a pink tree he’d never seen before when the young man approached him. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, but he looked tired beyond his youth, timid in his approach, as if Phil would turn around and hurt him any second. But they became fast friends (it turned out Schlatt gained quite the sense of humour despite all his troubles) and Phil couldn’t help doting over him sometimes. He felt the need to help and protect, something he forgot he could do.

All the while Wilbur and Techno were left to watch over a baby, deep in the sprawling city they called home. Techno’s voices became louder, Wilbur’s outbursts were untamed, Tommy grew up rebellious and foul-mouthed. They weren’t children anymore.

When Phil returned, his sons were verging on criminals. He was gone for much longer than he’d promised, eight years, and he’d missed them growing older without him. They were happy to see him back, though, especially Tommy, who had only heard stories from his brothers of the winged man who was supposed to raise him. 

The city was never good for them, but neither were villages or towns (Schlatt proved the point) so he moved them to a cottage in the forest, far away from anything else. Wilbur introduced Phil to Fundy, and didn’t talk about the child’s mother, and the five of them lived together in the little house. And they were happy.

He liked to remember good times. Good times with baby Tommy learning how to walk before he left, and Wilbur playing his guitar, and Techno winning championship after championship. Then the good times after his return, making bread in the kitchen or feeding the chickens or fixing holes in the cottage roof. Phil could pretend they were always a happy family.

But his absence had turned Wilbur bitter and made Techno spend less and less time at home. In fact, his eldest son was the most hostile. He’d been excited to introduce the new friend he made, having won a championship with him, then became angry when Phil said he already knew the man. 

_ I wish I could say the right words to lead you through this land  
_ _ Wish I could play the father and take you by the hand _

It was odd, actually, how Schlatt wove his way into their lives. He met them all at different points and formed a specific dynamic with each member of the family. To Phil, he was crude in his humour but kind in the in-between, curious about all the things in the world his farmer’s upbringing barred from him. Tommy looked up to him, for some reason, and Techno often commented on his clever personas and self-important attitude. 

For Wilbur, things were different. It was like Schlatt became a new person. Reckless and stupid and easily swayed. Their bond was undeniable and terrifying. He’d wasted lives, they both had, on pointless things, pointless challenges. But Phil supposed they were young, and that he wasn’t any better at that age, so he let them be.

That’s what he always did. Let them be. If only he hadn’t been so careless. The sight of his sons was forever scorched into his memory, one missing an arm, one forced into acts of violence, one maniacal in his power as he held an axe over their oldest friend. He saw it when he closed his eyes, heard the crack and the screams, and he hated it.

Phil hadn’t realised he’d been spacing out until Tubbo shook his shoulder. On the coffee table sat two cups of tea, the warm comfort of steam drifting up into the air and evaporating in slow circles. He smiled at the boy, grateful for the break in his thoughts, and took the cup in his hands. 

At least there was Tubbo. Tubbo, who Tommy ran off with at age 12 to discover a new land with. Tubbo, who was always a part of his youngest’s letters home. Tubbo, his fourth son, in spirit. Phil could have cried when the boy showed up at his door. 

And now they were trying to rebuild. Out of ashes comes new life. He took a sip of tea, careful not to burn himself on the drink. A shaking exhale left him along with the weight on his shoulders. It was time to turn his brain off, stop thinking for a moment, enjoy the tea and the company and forget the world. Maybe he was getting old.

Simplicity. He could stay here forever. Retire and become one of those grandparents who always have cookies in the pantry and own three cats, but you can only pet one of them without getting attacked. He and Tubbo could look after the bee farm and let the others deal with the problems so far away. And that was selfish again. But it wasn’t just Phil who needed to rest. Tubbo had wounds yet to heal, something bothering him he wouldn’t talk about yet. Like an arrowhead buried in the flesh with skin healed over the top. It would be painful to get it out, and painful to fix. 

But those things could wait. Tubbo was rambling about the garden, and the weather, and Phil felt so ancient. He drank his tea and closed his eyes, the troubles of the past melting away bit by bit.

Then the sound of knocking coming from down the hall. Phil jumped. Tubbo put down his drink. “There’s someone at the door.” They both stood, and Phil felt the bones in his legs click as he did so, reminding him of his age. Perhaps if he hadn’t done so much fighting in his youth...

He walked towards the door, grabbing his keys in the process. Tubbo kept behind him. It wasn’t often they got visitors unless Schlatt counted (technically they rescued him) so caution had to be taken. 

The key twisted in the lock, and Phil undid the latch with a metallic clicking noise. In the hallway, Tubbo had his hand on the sword they kept next to the coat rack, ready to defend Phil from any intruders. How sad that a child would think that necessary. It wasn’t like Phil needed to be protected. He wasn’t weak, but Tubbo’s caution stemmed from someplace deeper and more traumatising. They would have to talk about it later.

Phil took a pause to breathe, then opened the door in one swing. 

Standing there on the doorstep were three figures, all bundled in coats with breath fogging in the cold. To the right, Niki, looking world-weary and close to tears. On the left, Quackity, with a scowl out of place in his expression. Then in the middle, closest to the door—

“Fundy?”

\---------------

It had been at least three weeks, that’s what Schlatt knew for sure. Because, if he was right about how dehydration works, he was being given water every other day, apart from missed days (he knew because it felt like his throat was being clawed out from the inside) and he had been given over ten cups of water.

Food was a different story. It appeared in random intervals, so he couldn’t count with meals. But it had been at least three weeks, and that’s all he had to know. He’d been using his nail to scratch tally marks into his bedpost because it seemed like the right thing to do. That’s what prisoners do, isn’t it? To count the days? Though he wasn’t really counting days, he was counting water, and working it out from there.

_ Wish I could stay here  
_ _ But now I understand  
_ _ I’m standing in the way _

He realised that three weeks is a long time to go without seeing another person. There used to be some rule in the city prisons, where people could only be kept in solitary confinement for fifteen days, or they’d go crazy. It had been longer than that, and he didn’t feel crazy. Just lonely.

The bite marks at his wrists and the crack in the keratin of his remaining horn were a coincidence. Coincidences he didn’t see as weakness and could remember just fine without everything getting fuzzy, thank you very much. He hadn’t jumped from his bed. He fell head-first. And the wounds on his skin were accidents. Accidents, all of it.

Most of his time was spent lying in bed and trying not to think, anyway. He’d become hypersensitive to sounds, here in captivity, and preferred when the noise was muffled and soft. Even though the silk bedsheets were too smooth, he would rather endure that than the sound of his own movement. His own pacing, his own breathing, his own heartbeat. The silence became louder than ever if he concentrated.

Some four days without food had gone by, and Schlatt had almost forgotten to check when he woke up. He sighed. “So, what’s it today?” He sat up from where he lay on his bed and peered at the floor, expecting nothing.

A bowl of porridge sat at the foot of the bed, with a small glass of water by its side. “Ah, great.” His own apathy felt disingenuous, the promise of food exciting him more than he let on. And hell, who was he performing too, anyway? 

He picked up the bowl with trembling hands and thanked Wilbur for the spoon that came with it. Most days he wouldn’t be given the privilege, forced to eat with his hands and feel like even more of an animal than he already did. Not that he cared when the burn of hunger ran through him so consistently. It was pathetic how something as simple as cutlery could make him feel grateful towards his captor. 

“I’m really talking to myself, huh?” He asked himself as he took a first bite of the food. It was heavenly, plain porridge with the smallest hint of cinnamon (though he could have been imagining it) that woke his stomach from its dormant state. That’s the funny thing about hunger, after a day or so you stop feeling it, but with the smallest bit of food, it jump-starts all over again.

He shovelled the food into his mouth, desperate to not be so hungry anymore. Wilbur never brought him full meals, only things that would leave him not quite satisfied and quick to hunger again. Still, he ate every time, not knowing when his next meal would be.

Before all of this, he used to go days eating nothing, too caught up in work and coffee and alcohol. He used to argue that he didn’t have time, and there would be days where Quackity would drag him away from his desk and make him something to eat out of pure annoyance at his lack of self-preservation. So it’s not like he wasn’t used to going hungry.

But this was different. In the cell, he had no distractions, just himself and the ever-present hunger. When he felt like he needed to, he would go to the sink in the little cut-off bathroom in the far wall and wash, wishing he could shave but commending Wilbur for having the foresight to not let him near razors. Other than that, there was nothing.

He finished eating and set the bowl down, deciding to save the water for when he needed it. His throat didn’t even hurt yet. There was no point in wasting what he had, not in times like this.

_ The cries around you, you don’t hear at all  
_ _ ‘Cause you know I’m here to take that call  
_ _ So you just lie there when you should be standing tall  
_ _ But I…  _

Back to the ‘talking to himself’ thing. “Way to go, Schlatt, you’ve gone insane.” That was a sign of insanity, right? He was sure someone said that once. He always did talk to himself a little, when he needed to focus on a task, but now it was all the time. 

“You’ve gone insane and you’ll never get out of here and you’ll probably rot here, too,” he reminded himself. What if Wilbur never came back? What if he was left alone forever? How long would he last like this? Would he just waste away, or would he bring his fate into his own hands? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The things he’d do to see another person. The things he’d do to talk to someone. He missed rambling about life with Quackity. He missed listening to Tubbo talk about bees. He missed other living beings. He missed their words and their touch and everything else. He missed messing everything up and losing people. He missed being a bastard to his friends. He missed their forgiveness most of all.

He laughed, a few tears falling from his eyes. “Shit.” He missed Wilbur.

\---------------

Dream stood on a grassy hill overlooking New L’Manburg. His mask lay somewhere on the ground, drinking in the last of the daylight. The chill of winter seeped into his bones, a strange blanket of calm coming with it, peaceful in its cooling nature. He sighed, and acknowledged the figure behind him.

“Good evening.” He didn’t turn around yet. He didn’t need to. The figure stood on the other side of the hill, just high enough for Dream to be able to see if he did turn. He closed his eyes, ready for the pounding of footsteps and the drawing of a weapon to shock him back into a fight. 

It didn’t happen. “Evenin’.” The deep, comedically monotone voice confirmed his suspicions. The fact that he didn’t launch straight into battle felt like a first, and so he turned to face his visitor. Technoblade stood in front of him, anger in his eyes and a sword in his hand. His long hair had been tied into a braid, flying to the side with the wind, and he wore iron armour, probably the best he could find.

Dream eyed up the sword, a lopsided smirk crossing his face. “You want to fight me? Why?” He found the very idea to be laughable, in a sad kind of way. Techno looked set on his goal, though, so he thought he might entertain it.

“Oh, I don’t know, ‘cause you’re manipulatin’ my brother? You’re encouragin’ his insanity?” A laugh threatened to spill, then. Did Techno seriously think he had anything to do with his brother’s condition? No, no, Wilbur got to that point all by himself. Funny how Techno wanted to blame someone else.

The cold winter air whipped his face, causing him to tighten the drawstrings on his hoodie. Underneath it, netherite armour warmed his skin, the sturdy metal somehow conducting heat even in these conditions. Dream drew his own sword as his ally’s brother approached, purple enchantments sparkling as he cut the wind with it. 

“I wouldn’t call him insane,” he said. And it was true. He wouldn’t call Wilbur insane, he’d call him a genius. He had, on many occasions, much to his friends’ dismay. But who cares? Who needs the approval of friends when you have that much power sitting in your grasp? 

Techno rolled his eyes, coming to a stop a few feet ahead of him. “No, no, he’s ill. He’s sick. He needs help, and not from someone like you.” Sick? Dream could tell you what’s sick. Letting all that power go to waste, that’s what. Did he agree with everything Wilbur had done? Of course not. Taking his brother’s arm was a little excessive, and he wasn’t impressed with all the fanfare of Schlatt, but if he felt it necessary, then why the hell not? Why the  _ hell _ not? 

Dream cast his mind back to his meeting with Wilbur and Schlatt. That was weeks ago, now. How scared the former president looked, how excited Wilbur had been to show him how he’d broken the man. And he didn’t disappoint. He had the ram shaking and at his mercy just by standing from his desk. It was a good thing Dream was such a creature of opportunity. Anyone else would have been horrified.

Horrified and confused about the nature of the relationship, but Dream was only one of those things. He didn’t feel it right to pry.

“And so… we’re fighting?” He had to make sure, just in case he was misinterpreting the situation. There were greater things to think about than whatever the hell Wilbur and Schlatt were doing. His own safety, for example.

A moment of quiet passed on the potential battlefield. “Yeah.” Techno gave a curt nod, as if confirming the idea in his mind. 

“You know you have one arm, right?” Dream laughed, but the hybrid didn’t seem phased. It would have worried him coming from anyone else, but he thought Techno’s confidence was a mask. It must have been, the disadvantage he had was far too great.

Techno scoffed. “I can still beat you.” Something dangerous flickered in his eyes, something primal, making Dream take a step back. Nervous jolts ran through his spine against his will, his fight-or-flight instinct making itself known. What the hell?

“You’ve barely beaten me before, what makes you think you can now?” Damn the waver in his voice. Damn it to hell. Techno took another step forward, a disgusted sneer crossing his face as he looked at Dream. As if he was so much of a monster, the hybrid couldn’t bear to see him. Great.

But it was true. They had fought when Techno still had both arms, and he’d only been beaten by the smallest margin. Now the pig only had one arm, and an unenchanted iron sword. How was he planning to win?

The smell of sulfur filled the air, a familiar scent in this part of the country, where the trees had burnt for weeks, and some never stopped burning. “That was for money.” Techno’s ears flicked against the wind. The sky was dark with the remnants of the evening sun. Specks of ash landed on their clothes, sticking to the fabric in clusters. The direction of the breeze must have changed.

“So?” Dream asked. He didn’t get it. What was the difference between this fight and their others? Money, family, revenge. They didn’t affect anything. Dream thought of George and Sapnap, waiting for him to come home. Nothing. He didn’t feel any more ready to fight. So what did it matter? 

Something like disappointment crossed Techno’s face. He flipped the sword in his hand, weighing it against the air with a subtle swing. Dream tensed. Then he started to walk forwards, determination in every step. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

_ I wish I could lay your arms down, and let you rest at last  
_ _ Wish I could slay your demons, but now that time has passed  
_ __ Wish I could stay here, you stalwart, standing fast  
_ But I’m standing in the way  
_ __ I’m just standing in the way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally the least gay chapter. That's how you can tell I'm going through it.


	11. Cannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forests and light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'm not going to update for a while because I have so much work  
> Also me, giving myself one day to do a 5000-word essay instead of two: 
> 
> Don't say I never treat you guys. Here are 3500 words of schlangst to tide you over until my next update (which will actually be a while, because I have so much work). I had fun writing this chapter but it's a bit naff in places so please don't judge it too hard. Leave a nice comment instead.
> 
> TWs: heavy descriptions of decay and some gore, this chapter got kinda weird

_ Looking for a cavern   
_ _ A place where she can stay  
_ _ Waiting for the darkness _

Wilbur stood outside the cell, heart in his throat as he unlocked the door with a loud click. He took a breath. Today was the day he would let Schlatt see him. Today was the day he found out if his little experiment had worked.

And it scared him, sort of, what might wait on the other side of the door. He'd only ever seen Schlatt while asleep and often heard him shouting to no one from a different room in The White House. Now he could see him. Now he could talk to him. Finally.

To combat the cold, he wore a heavy coat. Still, the air bit at his skin, teething its way up his arms and making his hairs stand on end. Schlatt must've felt twice as cold. 

He opened the door.

It was exactly as he left it. “Good morning, my dove.” He breathed in the subtle sweetness of rot, clouding up the cold air as it left him. The room swirled with life, like he could taste the spores on his tongue, stagnating in air-pools and fracturing the stone brickwork. It harboured the potent stench of decay, as if something had died trying to escape. 

That wasn’t entirely false. In the centre of the room, with his back against the wall, the ram sat curled in on himself with his knees up to his face. Fixed hands gripped the fabric of his trousers, knuckles white and skin peeling around each joint. He didn’t move, other than the faint rise and fall of his chest, which told Wilbur his prisoner was still alive. 

It had been thirty-five days since their meeting with Dream, and Wilbur made sure Schlatt didn’t see anyone in those days. He’d heard about some promising side-effects of solitary confinement, but now, looking down at the silent figure, he wondered if he’d gone too far. 

He tapped his foot against the floor twice. “That’s no fun. Hello?” No response. Schlatt hadn’t even looked at him yet, head buried in his knees and breaths steady. It unsettled him, to see a creature so brash and capricious reduced to a statue. But he’d been the one to carve the marble, hadn’t he? He’d been the artist. He’d been the sculptor. 

A breeze hit his back, and he turned. Ah. “Almost forgot the door.” The thunderous sound of metal slamming against stone sent a shiver down his spine. Dust flew up into the air, making Wilbur cough into his hand. Again, his prisoner didn’t move, content in sitting defenceless on the ground. A flicker of anger sparked through him, but he snuffed it out with the cloth of determination. He wouldn’t let this game of silence get to him.

“You wouldn’t run away from me, would you, darling?” The pretty name fell out of him with practised sorghum-syrup sweetness. He knew it got under the skin, the inherent romanticism of it all, swallowed down and hacked back up in a puddle of bile and rose petals. Words were weapons, and his were like cigarettes extinguished on skin.

The ram didn’t respond, but dipped his head further down as if to smother Wilbur’s words. His gaze wandered to the beautiful porcelain horn sitting on the right side of his head. It shone in the limited light, though it may have been from enchantments, and a few hair-thick scratches caught his eye. Pretty gold and red flowers bloomed on the smooth skin of the prosthetic, detailed with specks of brown in their centres. It made his prisoner look more ornamental than ever. 

Because that’s what the ram was. Ornamental. Decoration. Property. His property. Something he cared for and wanted to make beautiful. He should be the one to choose when it could speak, or when it could stay still, or who to obey. And yet it cast itself to the orders of its own mind. 

_ When she leaves obsessed to make her way to me  
_ _ Because it’s getting to the time when she will need to feed _

His fist hit the wall. “Answer me!” Nothing. He’d gotten used to people flinching when he shouted. People like Fundy, the traitorous bastard. With a groan, he pushed himself forward, heels striking the ground like flint to steel as he paced the freezing cell. 

Was it really cold?

“Maybe I shouldn’t have left you for so long,” he said under his breath. In one smooth movement, he crouched next to Schlatt, so close he could feel the warmth radiating from his body. He was thinner than when they last met. The skin on his hands and arms was red and raw, a few small scars present where his wrist met his palm. Wilbur could see the smallest sliver of his face through the gap between his arm and his knee, the white of his eye glossy and sheet-like. 

He didn’t notice his hand move up to the hybrid’s hair. The unkempt brown strands threaded through his fingers, knots catching every so often with each comb-through. The vague memory of doing the same for Fundy when he was younger ran over his head, back when it was just the two of them, the calming gesture never failing to guide the boy to sleep. He frowned. 

Schlatt didn’t move. He didn’t press back against the hand at his head, nor did he startle away or panic with memories of the torment he’d been through. Wilbur almost hoped he’d broken the man for good. That he could throw his prisoner away to nature and be done with the whole thing. He could stop himself, then, if there was no reaction to indulge in, no screams or whimpers or other pretty sounds. Maybe he could get help. 

Another part of him felt sick at the idea of leaving the frozen man out in the forest to die. Would the animals or the rot eat him first? Would he dehydrate or would something come along and gut him while still alive? Would he try to run, or would his mind not allow it? Wilbur sat against the wall, legs shaking. No, he couldn’t let his lamb go.

He wouldn’t have much choice if he couldn’t get a response out of the ram. Now, the smell of the room made him nauseous, an omen of what was to come. If his prisoner died here, how long would it take for his body to decompose? The cell was like an ice-room, almost, with how cold it was. Wilbur forced his hands to stop shaking.

He traced the spot where Schlatt’s broken horn met the prosthetic, feeling how the material shifted from natural, rough keratin to cool porcelain. Humming, he put his other hand into the pocket of his coat, feeling around for his electric torch. He had to use it to find his way to the cell, as there were no lights in the hallway leading up to it. 

Shaking the torch in his left hand, he used his right to grab Schlatt’s in-tact horn and pull his head up. The prisoner kept a neutral expression as his face was revealed, staring at nothing, past Wilbur and to the wall. Frustration boiled over inside him at that. 

The torch switched on, a bright beam of white cutting through the cell and highlighting how much dust danced in the air. Wilbur admired it for a second, watching the particles twirl and spin in the torchlight. He smiled.

Then he turned the torch to light up Schlatt’s face. “Just keep looking, sweetheart.” He held his left eye open by force, shining the light directly into it. White light, it would burn the retina if he left it long enough. That wasn’t the actual goal. The actual goal was to get a reaction.

“Good pet,” Wilbur said, keeping the eye open. It watered and tears fell from it, but the ram didn’t move away. Disturbingly, his expression never changed, even when his eye twitched and strained against Wilbur’s hold, natural instincts overcoming his mental block. Wilbur drew the light closer, revelling in the way tears ran freely down his prisoner’s skin, more than he’d ever seen. 

The glossy white sheets looked so beautiful like this. He could study the colour in his prisoner’s eye for hours, but what made him happiest were the tears filling up at the bottom of the eye socket and falling out, overflowing. The hand holding the torch began to shake as he laughed.

Schlatt jolted, throwing his head back and screwing his eyes shut. “What the hell? Stop, stop!” He screamed, bringing his hand to his face as rivers of tears fell from it. His body spasmed a few times, curling in on itself even further. It couldn’t have been the worst pain he experienced, but it had been a while, so Wilbur didn’t judge the overreaction.

A grin stretched across his face. “Welcome back.” His hand ghosted Schlatt’s back, but he didn’t place it down. Instead, he sat back, watching the former-president twitch and sob with a calm feeling in his heart. He had reacted. It was over.

“My eye! Fuck, it hurts!” Oh, how Wilbur would never tire of hearing Schlatt’s voice contorted in that way. The torch lay discarded on the floor, and he kicked it with the toe of his shoe. It rattled.

A whimper came from the prisoner. Wilbur shushed him. “There, there.” As if he was talking to a child. Because he knew how much Schlatt hated things like that, and he enjoyed the way he leaned into the words, no energy, and perhaps no will, to bite back. It made him feel powerful.

“It burns! I can’t see!” Schlatt was staring wide-eyed at the other side of the cell, now. He kept rubbing his left eye and blinking over and over again. Confusion (so pretty on his features) crossed his face, and another sob shook through him. 

Wilbur placed a hand at his shoulder, and he turned. If he could have saved that moment in his memory forever, he would have. Wide, doe eyes staring up at him, out of focus and terrified. It ignited something in his heart, deep and cruel. Like there was some creature inside him that lived for this. Some monster being fed.

He offered a smile. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re fine, it’s not permanent.” That might have been a lie—he didn’t know how badly he burnt the ram—but he knew his prisoner wasn’t blind. Schlatt sniffled, then started to shake.

“Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t know! I won’t—I can’t—” 

He cut the grovelling man off. “Don’t ignore me again, and I won’t have to hurt you.” Even though he knew what had happened wasn’t Schlatt’s fault, he framed it as if it were. Whatever mental place he’d been in was only designed to protect him, and Wilbur couldn’t have that ruining his fun again, could he? Not when he worked so hard to break him in the first place.

“I’m sorry.” The ram stared at the floor, shame dripping from his face. Wilbur felt almost bad about it, the sheer contrast between this man and the one he resented so much being too much to fathom. But thoughts like that made this much harder to justify. It was best to let it be.

With gentle hands, he finally held Schlatt, pulling him close and letting him rest his head on his chest. His prisoner let out an exhausted sigh. He ran a shaking hand through the man’s hair, avoiding the horns for once. “Don’t worry, I’m here. I’m here, my lamb.” 

\----------------

Schlatt was running. Running away, through an endless forest of pine trees, legs carrying him faster and faster until he felt as though he was flying. Nothing chased him, but he ran anyway. He ran and ran, each footstep getting lighter as leaves flew into the air behind him.

The crunch of sticks under his feet became white noise. He didn’t trip once, rushing forward with a grace he may have known once in his youth before his body gave him hell and guilt brought him to it. He felt like he could keep running forever, going to wherever but never stopping. Maybe that’s what he needed to do. Running never got other people hurt, and as long as no one caught him, he wouldn’t get hurt either. Not when he could fly.

He found himself in the clearing he used to come to as a child, back on the farm. He was never sure if it counted as his adoptive parents’ land, but he’d go there as a safe place, anyway. His legs stopped propelling him forward, and he came to a stop, admiring the familiar place before him. In reality, he doubted the clearing was ever this big, but he was a child, and children are small, and it was his escape. How he came back here, he didn’t know. 

The treeline stretched on for miles, and he had all the time in the world to keep running, so he thought he’d stop and break for a while. He sat on the soft grass, feeling the strands in between his fingers. The same spot he took when he was small, because he could never forget the way he’d run off to this place and scream his heart out where no one could hear, a tradition he grew out of as an adult.

In the corner, a small pond and rotting tree stumps. A collection of mushrooms grew from the bark, brown and cream stems leading to more colourful tops. Once, he’d tried to pick some and bring them back home, but his adoptive mother told him they were poisonous, and that he should burn them in the fire. He’d gone back in his teens and gathered more to hide in his bedroom. He didn’t like to think about why. 

_ And I am the willing victim of a cannibal  
_ _ She rips out my bones just like I’m an animal _

His body filled with the longing to get going again, but he held it down. A distinct sadness poked at his chest, digging around in the veins of his heart and pushing out little bits of doubt and yearning. He shuddered, full-bodied and painful. Yearning for what? 

A weight around his neck answered the question for him. He looked down at the crucifix and cursed aloud. The wooden cross grazed his fingertips, each touch igniting tiny sparks that ran down his arm and into his spine. How horrible, that his punishment for saving the person he loved was to be kept from them, forced to imagine their happiness without ever witnessing. 

Loved? Is that how he saw it now? 

Schlatt sighed, curling his hand around the rosary. It pulled him down, getting heavier the tighter he gripped it. His hand shook with the force, knuckles sticking up through his cracking, splitting skin. He yelped in pain and the rosary grew heavier still, weighing down his body as his legs began to sink into the ground. The dirt shifted around him, oily and slick in a way that pulled him further down.

Phantom hands ran across his chest, around his neck and through his hair. They startled him at first, his mind ringing with danger all around, but he pushed away the doubts to embrace the feeling. He leaned back on them, tears rolling down his face from the ecstasy of being touched. Hell, he was touch-starved, wasn’t he?

He let the earth consume him, holding both hands around the rosary as if in prayer. The sky above him grew ever distant, sunlight gracing his face for a final time before he was plunged into darkness. Thick, black mud pressed against his body, forcing entry into his ears and nose. He choked on the dirt, eyes screwed shut and hands clasped around each other to the point where his fingernails broke the skin. Soil entered his throat, the bitter taste making him cough. He could feel worms crawling around deep in his chest. 

The object in his hands turned to sand, falling through his fingers as the dark mud pulled at his flesh. Worms struggled on his tongue and in his throat. He stopped choking on them and just let it happen, feeling the creatures settle. Some crawled up into his head, some nestled in the muscle of his arms. In his stomach, insects laid their eggs and ate him from the inside out, decaying his insides as dirt replaced skin and life took over the dead. 

He felt nothing in the last moments, fingers numb to the grains of sand that had pulled him down. When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but endless black, littered with colours he could only imagine as his last breath left him. The earth then took his body, letting his consciousness fade into the beauty that was death.

Waking up from it was a surreal experience, but Schlatt felt relief at not being dead. The dream faded fast, leaving behind uneasy nausea in its wake. He sat up in his bed, comforted by the familiarity of the cell. 

_ And right when I’m feeling like my blood is drained  
_ _ She calls it a game _

On the floor next to the bed, a small glass vial sat staring straight at him. On the label, a human skull, eyes boring holes into his skin. The liquid inside was black (like mud) through the glass. He grimaced. 

It took a lot of willpower, but he stood from the bed. His eye stung from the burning, feeling dry all the way through, and he brought his hand up to rub it when he realised his vision hadn’t gotten better. He blinked, but the world still blurred at the edges, leaving him to navigate it without grace. 

The bottle wasn’t as heavy as he thought it would be, the viscous liquid moving around when he swirled it. There was a cork in the top, which he pulled out, and fast replaced when the smell hit him. It was like death, whatever hit him, and the disgusting air became palpable even after the bottle had been closed. It sat on his tongue like salt, forcing him to swallow it down. 

Something like a wither potion? It certainly looked like one. He was so weak—that sort of thing would kill him if he drank it. 

Then why would Wilbur give it to him? He didn’t want Schlatt dead; he wanted to keep him forever. This little vial could take his last life and free him from this place. But if Wilbur wanted him dead, wouldn’t he take that life with his own hands? Why would he leave it up to Schlatt? Unless… 

An ultimatum. It was an ultimatum. Schlatt’s breath caught in his throat. He’d been given his key, his way out, as death in a bottle. Wilbur had given him a choice. 

His captor knew him too well. He knew he wouldn’t take the bait. His hands shook as he placed the bottle back down on the floor, leaving it to mock him with its two-dimensional skull. How desperately he wanted to reach for the bottle and drink the whole thing. But to die here? Alone and cold, choking on his own vomit as the magics in the potion rotted his bones from beneath him? 

He would rather stay forever under Wilbur’s control, and the bastard knew it. A week ago, he would have jumped at the chance to get out forever, sick of being alone and more unstable than he’d ever been. But then Wilbur showed up, and broke him out of his self-imposed, unfeeling prison, and made a promise of return. He wasn’t all alone anymore. 

Schlatt fell back onto his bed, covering his face with his hands. A sharp pain ran up his side, coming from his chest and shooting all over his body. Whether it was his heart or his ribs, he couldn’t be sure. 

It wasn’t even a question, which was what he hated about it. As soon as he realised what Wilbur wanted him to do, he made the choice to stay. What level of fucked up did he have to be to refuse the instant out from a lifetime of torture? What kind of person makes the choice he made? 

He’d started to cry. God damnit. He curled up on the bed, facing the wall, and let out a sob. It all felt so hopeless. Barred from seeing anyone but Wilbur, willing to go through hell just to be near him, denying his liquid saviour. Wasn’t that just pathetic? Wasn’t that just repugnant?

The echo of metal footsteps rang out somewhere near the cell, and Schlatt choked when his head lifted in relief. It disgusted him, the way he wanted Wilbur to come back. It disgusted him, the calm he felt at the idea of Wilbur in his cell. It disgusted him, how easy it was to imagine himself strung up with chains and rope, content in his pain, as long as he had Wilbur’s embrace.

_ But the wound that she leaves is unmistakable _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas is it gay to get vored by the earth?
> 
> Aaaand adding that to my top ten list of worst things I've ever said. Cool. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed despite the earth vore.


	12. The Only House That's Not On Fire (Yet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interconnected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks away*  
> So it has Been A While. However that is because I accidentally started a new fic (go check it out wink wink) and I'm amazing. Uh. Also this chapter is 5000 words don't ask me how because I don't know. 
> 
> In other news I wrote this entire thing while a ram's skull looked directly at me because I have one now. I have a ram's skull just kinda chilling in my room. He's great. I love him. 
> 
> Anyways... enjoy this update and leave a quirky little comment if you want ;)

_ I feel knotted up today, but in a most exquisite way  
_ _ Like neckties or like macrame, bowlines and zeppelin bends  _

“That all you got?” Techno shouted from the side of the hill. Opposite, Dream wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, glaring at his opponent and gritting his teeth. He ran at the hybrid, tightening his grip on his sword as Techno stood still, a mocking smile on his face.

With little effort, Techno blocked Dream’s attack, and the two began their dance again. One of blades and turns and careful footing, a dance of death. It reminded Techno of a snappy and dispassionate tango, dipping down to avoid decapitation and spinning on his heel to catch his enemy off guard. 

His sword cut the air, bleeding it for all the tension it held. Dream stepped to the side at the last second and turned to counter the attack with his own. This game was one of strategy and thought, something Techno held over the hooded man, and something which served him better than his physical strengths could. Now, with one arm, his mind was to be his saviour. But his memories could be his downfall.

Wilbur slammed his fist into the wall, causing fragments of rock and dust to fall to the floor. They were in Pogtopia’s makeshift kitchen, with Techno trying to fix himself some lunch and Wilbur forgoing it once again in favour of going on a paranoid rant. Techno kicked some debris with his shoe, glad no ceilings had fallen on them yet.

His brother glared at him with enraged eyes. “You think you’re so much better than me! Just because you can fight!” Their argument, if you could call it that, started maybe five minutes ago, based on some slip in language and jump in conclusion. Techno would rather do anything else right now, but his brother wasn’t stable enough to be left alone. So he stayed, content in carrying out his day as if a madman wasn’t crying betrayal right into his ear. What a life.

Maybe he should’ve stayed with Phil. Things were good back at home. But then, who would’ve saved Tommy that one time? Or that other time? Or the time he didn’t like to think about? And who would save Wilbur? 

Was he saving Wilbur? The once influential leader of a beautiful rebellion, that’s what Techno had heard. That’s what he wanted to support. A rebellion against ‘The Man’, whether that be Dream or Schlatt or whoever. And it didn’t sound serious when he got the letter from Tommy, all written in chicken-scratch and blunt as hell. So what changed?

What changed when his brothers left home? Or were things always different? Had anything been the same since Phil left? Eight years he was gone.

Techno sighed. “I don’t. All I said is that I’m the best fighter here. Which is  _ true _ .” He poured a glass of water, filtered straight from the lake above them, then turned to the storage box. There should be some left over potatoes in there. His stomach growled. When did he last eat?

From the corner, Wilbur watched. That’s all he did these days. Watch. Techno found it unnerving, but had grown used to eyes being on him at all times. Life in Pogtopia would never be the same as home.   


Dream caught him with the flat of his sword, causing him to stumble. “You’re so confident. Delusional.” The man cackled, but Techno clenched his jaw and carried on with his attacks, each one heavier than the last. Come on, think. Focus. 

The voices grew in volume, screaming for blood and retribution. They distracted him, causing another failed attack and almost getting him caught with the blade. Dream smirked, as if the hybrid had just proved his point. Raging anger ignited in Techno’s chest at the sight of it, the idea of being laughed at by Dream of all people driving the voices to a near-deafening volume, making his fight even harder.

It gave him motivation to keep going, though, Dream’s expression reminding him too much of Wilbur’s and forcing up ideas he’d rather forget. If he survived this fight, he would have to confront those thoughts. But the fight continued on, and Techno’s mind wandered, his body working automatically to defend against Dream’s attacks. 

“I’ll tell you one thing. You’re not as good as you think you are.” Wilbur sat up on a counter, legs swinging against the air. He had calmed down since he last spoke, now full of smiles and comments which worried Techno more than they should.

Techno lifted his head from the storage chest. “What?”

The younger brother hopped from the counter, landing on his toes like a cat. He’d always been graceful, even in insanity, being lithe and agile while his body deteriorated beneath him. Techno was the brute. Resourceful and violent, content with the basics to keep him alive. Until he fought someone who matched him in skill. Then he was an artist.

He took a bite of the potato in his hand, voices swelling in volume for a second as he chewed. It tasted stale and tangy, but he checked for mould and rot, and found nothing to worry him, so he kept eating. 

_ If you were a theremin, I wouldn’t know where to begin  
_ _ My hands would stay here on my chin with a hum that never ends _

They had been fighting for upwards of an hour, now. Techno’s arms and shoulder hurt from where Dream had cut him, and Dream’s nose bled from where Techno had rammed it with the pommel of his sword. They had stepped away from each other, giving themselves just seconds to breathe in gulps of cool air. Dream’s hands shook, and Techno knew he would be the same if he looked. 

Still, he saw the window of opportunity. Techno rushed forwards, balancing himself as best he could with his sword, and cut upwards at Dream. The man took a moment to react, backing out of the way but being too slow to dodge the attack completely. The sword clashed against his armour, cutting his hoodie and revealing the netherite underneath. Techno watched the sword’s blade glow with heat as it made contact and pulled it away before it became damaged. 

Quick to readjust himself, Dream made a counterattack, but Techno stopped it before it came in contact with his shoulder. “I thought—I thought Wilbur got rid of your fighting arm?” Dream groaned in frustration. He held his sword with both hands now, swinging in wild and sloppy movements. Techno smiled. His enemy was wearing down.

The potato had been drugged, because what else would it be? Techno felt the fatigue before his vision spun, his arms getting heavy and his head pounding as if he’d stood up too fast. In a blind panic, he reached for the kitchen counter, gripping it as he clawed at it to hold himself up. His eyes flicked to Wilbur, who gave him a light smile.

“Just relax. It’s a painkiller.” He said it with all the confidence of someone who knew he was lying. Wilbur tapped his nails against the counter, watching Techno struggle to stand with an amused grin. Was this what it came down to? 

The hybrid faltered, hand slipping from the counter and a grunt pushing itself out of him as he fell to the floor. “Will—”

“You’re an idiot, Dream!” Techno said, laughter chasing up his words. “I’m ambidextrous! And better! Than! You!” He ran at the man, slamming his arm into his chest and forcing him to step back. Dream raised his sword, confusion colouring his face as he stared his enemy down. The air whipped around them, picking up with the setting of the sun, a cloud bathing the scene in shadow. 

It was now Techno saw recognition in Dream’s eyes. His body shook in full waves, knuckles white with the effort, panting for air. Techno had been careful with his attacks. He hadn’t over-exerted himself and he knew his opponent well, giving him an advantage over Dream’s endless stream of hits. It left him less tired, like the hunter walking after its prey. He played to his strengths. Stamina, resourcefulness, and intelligence.

He twisted his sword in his hand and made the last charge at Dream.

Techno couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Please! No! Not my arm—Wilbur!” On the ground, he tried to lift his head, but it felt like a heavy weight was dragging him into the stone. Wilbur knelt on his arm, pinning him down as if the drugs hadn’t done enough already. In his hand, he held a large meat cleaver, and another blade shone in the corner of his line of sight. 

His brother’s face blocked his vision, then, cold brown eyes staring dead into his own. “The festival is today. Tommy and Tubbo have their orders. Now you get yours.” The festival. God, Techno had forgotten… 

"You're gonna make a speech and set off some fireworks for me." Wilbur held the blade right against the skin of Techno’s arm, pushing down ever so slightly. "Because who else will take you when you can't be a weapon anymore?" That struck something within Techno. He wasn’t a weapon—he was a person! A person Wilbur seemed ready to permanently damage. His own brother wanted to make him useless. Useless, as if his fighting skill made him useful. Useless, like a broken sword.

And he was right. Wilbur would be the one to let him stay, even as useless as he would be. No one else would take a Technoblade that can’t fight. What would be the point? He felt tears falling down his face. Salt water in his mouth. Oh, he didn’t realise he was crying.

With a sadistic glint in his eyes, Wilbur shushed him like a baby. He gripped the cleaver in his hand, and Techno’s eyes, out of his control and weighted with fatigue, fell to the serrated knife next to them on the floor. Fear, an unfamiliar feeling, ran through his prone body. 

“Don’t worry,” Wilbur cooed, “it’ll be over soon.” And wouldn’t that be a blessing if it were true? A choked sob shuddered from Techno’s chest, arm deadened by the knee holding it down and the drugs coursing through his system. His world blurred into abstract shapes, causing him to blink and stare at whatever he could as Wilbur let out a manic laugh. He heard the clash of metal on stone. 

A large, shining blade flashed in the light above him, though he couldn’t make it out against the greys of the ravine. Wilbur’s hands shook, holding it there as if contemplating his next move. 

Techno groaned, his eyes losing focus, the ceiling spotting with black and white and the colours of enchantments. It was beautiful, in a way, how the swirling stones melded into each other and showed him patterns as intricate and vibrant as stained-glass windows. Horrifying, the way his mind accepted the drugged fantasy of it all while Wilbur hit his knife against the floor.

His brother didn’t hesitate for long. The cleaver, like his Chekhov’s gun, had to be used. In his last, hazy glimpse, he saw no more doubt in Wilbur’s eyes. And as it came down, cutting through the air like a match strike, Techno’s vision turned dark.

Dream lay on the floor, a heavy boot on his chest and a sword at his throat. He glared up at Techno, malice and hatred burning into the fighter, but made no attempt at movement. In the back of Techno’s mind, he laughed. So the self-proclaimed god was a coward? 

He could kill Dream, shove the sword through his neck or stab it into his heart and be done with it. He  _ should _ kill Dream, for what he did, for manipulating and helping Wilbur and then profiting from the pain he caused. But when Techno looked down, into the bastard’s eyes, into his soul and into his mind, he felt nothing. 

No burning fury, no need for blood. For once, the voices were silent. 

He settled for bringing his foot up and throwing it back down on Dream’s chest instead, with as much force as he could muster. The man screamed, and Techno heard something break, and that was enough. The sword left his enemy’s neck, finding itself at his side. Dream coughed, struggling to take in breaths and wincing when he tried to sit up. It hadn’t been a lot, but the damage had been done.

Techno stared down at the defeated man, no voices in his ears, no emotion behind his eyes. Dream stared back, fear gracing his expression. But nothing more would happen. He was done. Despite himself, Techno smiled at the way Dream flinched. Then he turned, cape flowing in the wind.

He walked away.

\----------------

Schlatt didn’t feel alive. He knew he was from the beating of his heart against his ribs, but he didn’t feel it. Sitting on his bed of silk, staring out across the cell, his own mind more of a prison than this one. He felt dead. More than dead. Like his body had been six feet under for quite some time. Rotting away and eaten by worms.

The bottle of deadly poison sat still in the centre of the room, taunting him for what he couldn’t bring himself to do. What was the point if he had already died?

And he’d gotten used to nothing. Alone for so long, in a hell designed to drive him insane, he’d become used to never seeing or hearing or touching. But now things were different. He hadn’t been forgotten, left to rot and tear himself apart. He’d been ignored.

_ This suit doesn’t fit me, I made it myself counterfeitly  
_ _ With buttons of blue, killing me with deja vu _

Maybe Wilbur found some amusement in watching him agonise over his own mortality. Maybe he thought a choice would do him some good. The full bottle of dark liquid told Schlatt he was giving Wilbur what he wanted. Giving himself over again with no resistance. Doing exactly as he’s told. He couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

He found himself drowning in indulgent memories. Ones where he laughed and cried and felt every emotion he could. One where he sat on a balcony waiting for a friend to join him in watching the stars. Memories of poker and treetops and buttons that didn’t cause countries to explode. 

Sometimes he’d think about the days where he’d make his own disasters, cause his own problems. Then he would remember faces, and names, and he wouldn’t want to remember anymore. The weight of a non-existent apple in his hand made him feel sick.

The cell’s door clicked, unlocked from the outside. Schlatt turned to it, an emptiness clawing at his chest that he couldn’t name. His sight blurred everything around the edges, even when he covered his bad eye. The light Wilbur shone into it had burnt his retina. He remembered someone telling him about it once, when he’d asked them how to blind people without getting your hands dirty. What he planned to do with the information back then was anyone’s guess.

Still, he could tell well enough that Wilbur had walked through the door. Who else would it be? His long, thick coat followed him like a cape, beanie covering his hair like he used to wear it back when they were friends. Schlatt wondered when they stopped being friends.

“Get up. We’re going somewhere,” Wilbur said. He felt obligated to comply, standing on shaking legs and taking a few steps towards his captor. The man pulled a stretch of fabric from his coat pocket, and placed it over Schlatt’s eyes, stepping behind him to tie it around the back. Schlatt felt like he could say something inappropriate, but found he didn't have the energy to do it. 

His world was dark. Dark, with little spots of light coming in through the material. Not that he could see clearly, anyway. Wilbur seemed to have forgotten, or he didn’t care. No, he wouldn’t have forgotten. His captor didn’t forget things.

Did it matter? “Come on.” He prompted Schlatt with a gentle hand between his shoulder blades, which he struggled not to push against. The small touch wasn’t enough. But he persisted, and they began to walk together.

As they ventured out of The White House and towards who knows where, Schlatt allowed himself to be guided while his mind drifted to someplace else. He tried to remember something from his travels, before he met Phil, to keep his mind off of the building anxiety which came with this journey. What came to mind didn’t comfort him much.

The memory of a young wolf hybrid dead in an alleyway flashed in Schlatt’s mind, degrading words and drying blood littering their skin. They can’t have been older than fifteen. That was one of the towns he didn’t stop in for long. One of the ones where hybrids went missing. Except they didn’t go missing, because Schlatt always seemed to find them. He hated those towns.

He’d always been glad for Phil. Meeting him helped him in more ways than he could count. But god, if he’d known what would come of it… maybe he would’ve told the man to go home to his sons. Then none of this would have happened. In another life.

_ It’s a gift for you when I escape at last  
_ _ When enough time has passed  
_ _ But something keeps me as a pet _

They came to a stop. Schlatt felt the blindfold being lifted, but he kept his eyes closed. Fear of what he might see and fear of the light hurting him again stopped him in his tracks. What if Wilbur had led him to another bright light designed to torture him? What if when he opened his eyes he saw the dead bodies of his friends? What if something worse lay on the other side of his awareness?

Irrational fears, maybe. Wilbur sighed. “Open your eyes.” He had to obey, but he obeyed with caution. A good choice, since fading sunlight made him squint and blink a few times before he could properly adjust. 

In his blurring line of sight a field stretched out towards the treeline, long grass brushing against the wind in peaceful strokes. Something, or lots of somethings, lay atop the dirt, woven into the green blades in little clumps of black and brown. They meshed together, leaving Schlatt unable to pick out a defining shape, but whatever it was made him uneasy. 

Wilbur bent down, picking something up between his thumb and index finger, then came back up, holding it out in front of them both. Schlatt blinked hard, trying to focus his vision on the small object. It shifted into focus, fuzzy, unclear lines forming something he could recognise. Schlatt felt sick when he realised what it was.

A honey bee. Wilbur held its wings between his fingers, pinning the insect up with its tiny body hanging down. Unmoving legs curled up underneath its plated abdomen. The antennae and mandibles jutted from its small head, and large, dead eyes reflected the world around them. Schlatt looked out across the field again, horror sending shivers down his spine as he realised how many tiny corpses he couldn’t see.

“Wh—what the fuck?” He let out a breath and struggled to take one back in, his mind on the edge of panic. He swore he saw the ground move. Maybe some of the poor animals weren’t dead yet. He took a step back, but Wilbur’s hand gripping his arm stopped him from going any further. 

The man gave him a look. “Tubbo’s bee farm. He built it under your administration, yes?” Schlatt nodded, a fresh horror dawning in his mind. Tubbo had built a huge bee sanctuary while Schlatt ran the country. He thought he might as well let the kid do something nice. When he found out the boy was a traitor, he’d been angry and upset, but he never thought to destroy his creation. To kill the animals he cared about most. 

Wilbur grinned. “I had to eradicate them.” And Schlatt wanted to scream. He wanted to punch Wilbur in the face and tell him that no, he didn’t have to do anything. He could have left it all alone. No one forced his hand. No one manipulated or betrayed or even mentioned it.

“God…” Schlatt couldn’t find any other words. He couldn’t look away from the stretches of grass. He couldn’t hear past the drumming of his pulse in his ears. It sounded like the low whir of a generator. 

“You can call me that, if you like.” Wilbur dug his nails into Schlatt’s arm, laughing at his own twisted joke. The hybrid shook him away, still watching the insects with damaged eyes.

_ The only house that’s not on fire yet  
_ _ I made it when I was an architect  
_ _ This is just a side effect _

A god. That’s what Wilbur saw himself as. That’s the reason he did this, wasn’t it? He was playing god. Playing a game only he could enjoy. Playing with people and creatures and life itself. He’d been playing the game with Schlatt for a long time. Maybe so long they both started to believe it. And wasn’t he a god, if he could do this? Or was this just the cruelty of man?

He had no more time to think about it. Wilbur turned to Schlatt with a shine of joy in his eyes. Joy which made him feel ill. “Join me for a dance, my dove?” 

A hand came to rest at his hip, laying itself above his pelvis. Schlatt felt as though he should be embarrassed at the intimacy, but the touch alone sent his mind reeling. His opposite hand grasped Wilbur’s, and his free hand found itself at his captor’s shoulder. 

They stood like that for a moment, Schlatt staring anywhere but Wilbur’s face and Wilbur’s gaze boring into him. He had been taught how to dance a long time ago, but his most recent use of those teachings were with Quackity, months ago now, one evening where they danced under the stars. That night had been sweet, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth to contrast it with this. The field of bee corpses was their dance floor, the bond not one of respect, but of shackles. It felt like sacrilege to compare. 

Then Wilbur’s feet moved, and the dance began. Schlatt felt himself being pulled closer to the man, almost without purpose, as he led them across the field. He tried not to focus on the feeling of shifting, uneven lumps under his feet, instead letting the idea of what they were doing wash over him in waves.

If he closed his eyes, he could pretend they were in a ballroom, dancing together at some extravagant party. Schlatt imagined himself in a fresh, expensive suit, Wilbur wearing one of his own in a different but complementary style. Other partygoers would watch them as they controlled the floor, and it would be romantic in the way of performance, but hold no weight behind it. They would laugh together about it afterwards, making conversation and drinking wine until it was time to go.

Some foreign emotion bubbled in Schlatt’s chest. Not quite longing, nor regret, but something close to the two. He moved in closer to Wilbur, their dance changing pace in time to a song he couldn’t hear. They stepped in sync, a waltz of some kind, almost floating over the grass that brushed their ankles and shoes.

Their movement slowed to a stop, Wilbur moving his hands to wrap around his prisoner. Schlatt craved the closeness, mind buzzing as Wilbur pulled him close, leaning into the embrace and returning it with trembling hands. They hugged in the centre of the field of dead bees, bringing together a million emotions he couldn’t put into words. Schlatt felt a hand resting in his hair, and, somehow, beyond his control, he felt complete. 

Wilbur was emotion. Wilbur was safety. Wilbur was comfort. To Schlatt, these things had to be true. They had to be because if they weren’t… he’d be dead. He’d be dead by his own hand. The little bottle of death in his cell, or his own teeth in his wrists, or food and water left ignored for days. He would be dead.

Dead. Buried, away from this hell and into another. No more sweet words, no more soft embraces, no more hands in his hair. And he’d miss it. He’d miss it all. And with that realisation, he rested his head on the man’s shoulder, and he cried.

\----------------

“That’s all we know.” Quackity sat on Phil’s sofa, a mug of hot coffee warming his hands. It had been a week or so since the three refugees arrived on Phil’s doorstep, but only now were they sharing their stories. They had taken time to heal, and eat decent meals, and do work around the house, and pretend things were normal for a little while. Now, Phil sat with them, next to Fundy and with the others around the living room, listening with building anxiety as each account was told.

“Should we go back? Help Schlatt? Help Wilbur? Techno? Tommy?” Tubbo’s voice broke Phil from his train of thought, giving him something else to consider. Saving people. 

As nice as it would be, he had his reservations. “I think… I think it’s too risky. He has guards, right? We could get caught. Sorry, mate.” He placed a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, and the boy gave him a sad smile. Phil thanked God for his patience. He’d been telling Tubbo the same thing all week, and it must’ve been grating on him. They simply didn’t have the means to go on some heroic rescue mission. Not yet.

Not when he had so many people to look after. “But for now, are you all okay?” Phil addressed the three sitting around the room. Fundy and Quackity on the sofa, Niki in her own separate seat. They all held cups with hot drinks (coffee for Quackity, tea for Niki, and hot cocoa for Fundy) because Phil knew it was the best way to keep people calm. Give them something warm and spillable to hold. And to drink as a comfort.

_ I feel strangely regular but honestly  
_ _ I prefer it to the usual bizarre; damn that oxymoron _

Niki smiled up at him, eyes tired but grateful. “I will be. Eventually. All I lost were possessions.” Phil had always appreciated her straight-forward nature, but the disregard of her own losses worried him a little. She’d lost her home and her bakery, according to Fundy, and she’d lost one of her closest friends—been betrayed by him, no less. Still, she smiled. 

He’d give anything to keep the positivity she possessed. Phil had been neurotic for a good portion of his life. A worrier, a procrastinator, and an obsessive. He threw himself into projects to avoid things he didn’t want to think about. Hell, helping Tubbo with the garden kept him from thinking about his sons. 

Someone like Niki didn’t seem so bothered. She wasn’t okay, not by any means, but she wasn’t stressed. Not about anything she couldn’t control. Good for her, Phil thought. Let’s see if the others are any worse.

“Quackity?” He noticed the rosary around the young man’s neck, the same one Schlatt left with. He also noticed the lack of response from the wingless hybrid. “I’ll talk with you later.” Thinking for too long about how Quackity must have lost his wings made his back and his heart hurt, but he would have to breach the topic at some point, despite how sick it would leave him.

Quackity had changed a lot since they last met (so long ago, the only time he ever visited Dream’s land in peace). He remembered the man as loud and comedically flirtatious, falling into the arms of anyone he saw. People would roll their eyes and laugh along with his jokes, and no one would mind if he overstepped a line. In direct contrast, he’d spoken a total of ten, maybe twenty words since he arrived at the house a week ago. He had been withdrawn and cautious, always making space despite his wings not being there, and he refused to meet anyone’s eyes, nervous hands fumbling over the beads of his rosary instead. 

They could spend all the time in the world unpacking that, but Phil wasn’t a therapist, he was just a shoulder to cry on. And if Quackity needed to cry, he’d be there when he felt ready.

To his grandson, then, the final of the three. “Fundy… I have to say I’m sorry.” The fox looked up from his drink, a surprised look in his eyes. “What happened to Wilbur was, uh, sort of my fault.” Phil sighed, raising his hand to pat his grandson’s shoulder, but placed his hand down on the sofa between them instead.

“You can’t blame yourself, Phil,” Fundy said. It stung, a little, to hear his grandson call him by his first name, but he guessed he deserved it. 

“I can if I’m right.” He said it with all the authority he could. Being so much older helped him with that, but he felt several eyes on him silently disagreeing with his stance. “Look. I’ve done a lot of thinking, and I realise I wasn’t a good dad, or granddad, to anyone in my family. I wanna make that right.” He knew he needed to take responsibility. He had messed up, and he was far too old to blame it on anybody else. 

His grandson brought his knees up to his chest. “He tore out my teeth.” Phil felt the whole room tense up. Not a good sign. The smell of chocolate and marshmallows drifted through the air, melting together with coffee. It made him uneasy.

“What?” He asked, not really wanting an answer. Fundy shuddered.

“Da—Wilbur. He… he took my teeth out with pliers. Only two, but it hurt.” He looked away, ashamed, and Phil felt his heart break.  _ Only _ two. “I don’t know. I thought you should know.” He’d fucked up more than he thought, hadn’t he? If Wilbur was willing to… to  _ defang _ his own son, what kind of father did that make Phil? Fundy hadn’t even turned eighteen yet. That fact seemed forgotten among everyone here.

He couldn’t sit back and watch his own flesh and blood suffer anymore. “Oh, my boy.” Phil opened his arms, inviting Fundy for a hug of his own free will. He made sure not to be forceful, but Fundy didn’t hesitate for a second, flinging himself into Phil’s arms and curling around him like a child. “My poor, poor boy.” He shushed his grandson as he sniffled and fresh, warm tears ran down his face. “I’m so sorry.”

Fundy laughed, but it was a sad, broken thing. “I forgive you, grandpa.”

_ If you were a piece of dust, I’d shine a light through the busted window  
_ _ And I’d learn to trust in the updraft that you’re on _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas it's never ever gay to dance with your enemy. Nor is it gay to have Stockholm Syndrome.
> 
> Thanks for reading and have a nice day xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
